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thyme-in-a-bubble · 2 months ago

Text

something in return

a/n: tbh i didn't intend for all of the moments in this instalment to fit into the same pattern, but hey, i won't complain when my geniusness unintentionally slips out... sometimes my big beautiful brain just can't help it lol

summary: “if you want them back so badly, then I think you’d have to work for it,” Steve cockily crossed his brawny arms.

warnings: frat!bucky barnes x innocent!reader x stepbro!steve rogers, professor!peter parker, professor!reed richards, smut, dark content, college au, polyamory, kissing, virgin!reader, corruption kink, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, size kink, pain kink, spit kink, masturbation, fingering, anal, squirting, impact play, dry humping, thighjob, pussyjob, cumplay

word count: 5606

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take her under your wing au masterlist | 101, intro to the au

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You didn’t recognise the room that you woke up in. All you could hope for was that you were still in the frat house after the previous night’s rager.

Though when you blinked around the unfamiliar space from your horizontal position, your eyes soon landed on the inked arm draped over your waist. Heartbeat promptly picking up, you slowly glanced back over your shoulder to discover Bucky sprawled out behind you and still fast asleep.

Carefully, you tried to twist out from under his burly arm and slip out of bed, but though your movement was cautious, it still managed to stir him.

“Morning,” he hummed groggily, his sleepy voice deeper than you’d ever heard before.

Sucking in a breath as you sat balanced on the edge of the mattress, you refused to whirl around to meet his eye, “uhm, hi… how–, uh,” you coughed, “why am I in your bed?”

“How the hell should I know,” he uttered through a yawn, “you were already here when I eventually went to bed.”

“Oh…” you breathed, and as you then shifted slightly, you noticed the lack of fabric beneath your skirt as nothing seemed to cling around your core, “uh–, did anything–,” you finally glanced back at him in alarm, “nothing happened, right?”

And as he stared back at you, his head cocked against the plush pillow, a smirk slowly began to bloom on his lips, “are you asking if we fucked last night?” he teased, “I am hurt that your brain would even dare to block such a magical night of lovemaking out of your memory.”

“What?” your eyes grew.

“Kidding! Nothing happened, I promise,” both of his palms promptly floated up, “or, nothing happened between us,” he pointed out with a tilt of his head as he lowered his hands once more, “from what I heard you and Steve had quite the night…”

“I-I–,” you averted your gaze, swiftly scrambling to get up, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” he uttered smugly, “but just so you know, there isn’t much he and I don’t share, secrets or otherwise…”

Glancing around the room for your phone, you soon spotted it on the windowsill, “…I gotta go, I’ve got freshman orientation to get to,” you grabbed the device. Crisp morning air caressed your bare core with every shy step and prompted you to briefly sputter, “you wouldn’t happen to know where my–, never mind…” utterly mortified, you swiftly dropped the subject once more.

“Oh, you’ve still got some time,” Bucky glanced to the ticking clock on his bedside table, “why don’t you hang around here a bit longer?”

“I really should be going–”

But your words then ceased as the door abruptly swung open and in waltzed none other than your stepbrother.

“Hey, dude, do you know where–, oh,” as Steve’s eyes landed upon you, his feet swiftly came to a stop, “well,” and a grin lit up his features, “good morning.”

“Steve, will you please help me out here?” Bucky looked to his friend, “your stepsister is being a boring little brat.”

“I’m sorry, but I do really need to go.”

“What, to freshman orientation? You’ve still got plenty of time before it begins,” Steve used the mass of his body to slyly block your passage as he kicked the door shut behind him.

“That’s what I said!” Bucky pointed out with a short chuckle.

“Well, I wanna get there extra early,” you tilted your head.

“For what?” your stepbrother furrowed his brow, “so that you can get a seat in the very front row?”

“Steve, just stop, just let me do it my way, okay?” you groaned, “I don’t wanna be anymore stressed this morning than I already am, so yeah, I’m going there early and you’re not gonna stop me.”

Staring back at you, a slow exhale seeped from his lungs before he eventually muttered, “…alright.”

“Great!” you then pushed past him, but just as your fingers grasped the door handle, your frame froze up, “…hey,” your words then came out as barely a whisper, “you wouldn’t happen to know where my–”

“Where your panties are?” he swiftly cut in, “yeah, I do.”

Twisting around, you met his smug features with a gentle furrow to your brow, “okay, where are they?”

“Hmm…” a smirk began to tug at his lips before he uttered, “I–, uh… I don’t think you deserve to know that.”

“Seriously?” you exclaimed, “Steve, just give them back, what use could you even have with them?”

“Oh, I could think of a few,” Bucky murmured from the bed, his arms comfortably curled back behind his head.

“If you want them back so badly, then I think you’d have to work for it,” Steve cockily crossed his brawny arms.

Melting with a sigh, you gave in, “alright, fine, what do you want?” fully expecting him to suggest that you should clean his room or something along those lines.

But instead, you heard him utter, “I wanna stretch that little virgin pussy out,” his tone casually smooth as his gaze drifted down your frame, “see how many fingers she can take.”

Glancing nervously to Bucky behind him, you coughed, “you wanna–, w-what?”

“Come on,” he took a step closer to you, “just let me pick the lessons back up from last night,” before he briefly cast his vision over his broad shoulder to the man still in bed, “you wanna join in? Help show her the ropes?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Bucky sat up more.

“You can’t be serious,” your chest heaved with every laboured breath, “are you still drunk?”

“No,” he simply shook his head as his feet continued to shuffle closer to where you stood.

“But Steve–”

“Shh, it’s okay,” his hands then grabbed each side of your face before he bent down and kissed you in an attempt to snuff out your worries.

And when he slowly retracted, the simple peck had managed to make your knees go wobbly as you now hazily blinked back at him, “…you sure?”

“Yeah,” he smiled as his thumb caressed your cheekbone.

Crawling out of bed, Bucky then asked one finally time, “so, you want your panties back or not?”

And as your eyes drifted to him as he slowly stalked closer to the both of you, a faint nod found your head, “…alright,” before a shiver ran down your spin at the deal you’d just made, “but just–, fuck…”

“We’ll be gentle,” Steve uttered before Bucky’s head tilted at his vow.

“Will we?” he knowingly scoffed at his friend.

“Well, we’ll try, let’s just promise that,” Steve chuckled as he corrected himself.

Slowly cascading down your inner thighs was not only the wet and sticky remnant of last night, but also the embarrassing reaction that fused with the terrifying nerves that now buzzed in your belly.

“H-how–,” you fumbled, faintly gesturing before trailing off, “uh…”

Still keeping his eye locked upon you, Steve murmured, “sit down on the bed,” as his head nodded back in that direction.

And slowly, you did so, all the while with your wild eyes trained on the pair of them.

“Lean back,” Bucky urged as he stepped closer, and you tilted further back against the pillows piled up against the wall that the bed stood against.

Firmly, you tried to keep your legs clambered shut as you watched them both kneel down on the floor at your feet, though as they pried your thighs apart, a shaky gasp rippled through your body.

“Fuck, look at that little pussy…” Bucky groaned as he reached out to be the first to graze his touch against your folds, still all messy as it glistened back at him, “how is she even better than you described?

“No fucking clue,” Steve chuckled as his own fingers slithered up to tickle at your clit.

They went on teasing your puffy pearl for much longer than you’d thought, as they kept going and didn’t change their maddening pattern till you were close to cumming. And as your cunt clenched around nothing, winking up at them, it was finally filled up by one of Steve’s thick fingers as he gradually pressed it inside, though barely past the first knuckle.

“O-oh my god,” you gasped shakily at the unfamiliar sensation and cast your glance down at the digit your pussy slowly swallowed.

“Shit…” your stepbrother’s mouth hung agape as he felt your tight hole struggle to stretch around him, “I really thought getting you close would have relaxed you more than this, but damn, baby…” he then retracked his finger only to nudge his friend beside him, “feel her, dude.”

“Wow,” Bucky chuckled darkly as he pressed in much deeper than Steve had, “we really gotta loosen you up before you have any chance of taking something real up here.”

You tried to keep your eyes open, tried to keep your gaze locked upon their overwhelming actions, though as the digit inside of you then carefully slide against your velvety walls and another’s touch reunited with your clit, you had no choice but to tumble over the edge, eyes screwing shut as your pussy clambered down around Bucky’s finger.

“Oh fuck, I can’t wait to feel that around my cock,” Bucky’s voice barely managed to seep through your haze as he stilled his shallow motions.

“Patience,” Steve’s words too sounded far away, like you were underwater as you came down from the high, barely registering as they both rapidly stripped you of your clothing, “if you try now, then you’ll just break her in two.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Bucky shot back as they both smiled.

A part of you thought that they were done, that they’d had their fill, but little did you know it was only the very beginning.

The finger still within you once again began to move, ripping a whimper out of your lungs as it slowly dragged back out, “wait, it’s too much–”

“What, are you sensitive?” Bucky’s steely gaze found yours as his touch made you squirm, “does it maybe hurt a little bit?”

“Hey,” Steve then tapped his friend’s wrist as he stared up at you, “hold her still,” before Bucky’s touch faded and traded in with Steve’s, gently circling your entrance as the other man bent up your legs, caught both of your wrists in one broad palm, before he locked the same inked arm over your folded frame and squished you further down into the mattress.

It took some effort, but eventually Steve managed to sink not only one, but two of his thick fingers into your dripping core, making you wiggle beneath Bucky’s hold as you felt your poor pussy be stretched.

“Oh, there you go,” your stepbrother chuckled as your tiny hole clung around his digits, forcing his pace to slow as you hugged onto him too tightly for him to fuck you at the pace he desired.

“H-how much is that?” you whimpered as your legs now obscured your view.

“Just two fingers,” Bucky pressed a peck to your inner thigh before elbowing his friend gently, “dude, you can go deeper than that.”

And as Steve sank his digits so deep that his palm rutted against you with each rock, you gasped, “seriously? It feels like it’s your whole fucking hand.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Steve grinned as he kept up his ruthless pattern, “might be a bit unrealistic for today, but we could certainly work you up to that.”

“No, I didn’t–, oh fuck–,” you tried to counter, though swiftly began to tremble once again, all of your vigour flying out of the window at the anticipation of yet another orgasm.

With Bucky’s free hand, it floated up to trace your stretched entrance clinging around his friend’s digits, only for Steve to then slip one of his fingers out to make room for one of Bucky’s to press in and plug you up beside the one remaining.

And as you tried to stifle your moans, Steve’s palm swatted down over your ass, “don’t you dare hold back those filthy noises.”

“Yeah,” Bucky’s finger rocked in tandem inside of you as you felt yourself tumble over the edge, “be a good girl and wake up the entire house,” his filthy commands urged you in your foggy state to let go even further and comply to their wish, “be loud enough for everyone to discover just exactly what a little slut Steve’s innocent little stepsister is.”

And as the intense wave of ecstasy washed over you, the pace of their fingers didn’t slow in the slightest, but grew rougher as their caresses began to overstimulate you. Squirming and whimpering beneath his touch, Steve continued in a gravelly tone, “yeah, they’re probably jerking it with their ears pressed up against the walls,” he tried to force a third digit inside, though both his and his friend’s attempts failed, try as they might, “wishing it was their fingers getting soaked by your sweet pussy.”

“What do you think,” Bucky’s pinkie then traced the cream that had leaked down from your stuffed pussy, south over your little rosebud, till it dripped onto the mattress below. Tracing your other little hole, glistening from the way they had you leaking, he simply couldn’t help himself and slipped just the very tip inside, “maybe that could happen one day…”

“If she’s good, sure,” Steve quit trying to work another finger inside, “can you do that, baby?” he asked as the rocking motion the two separate fingers in your cunt kept up and conjured a sloppy melody to slosh throughout the room, “can you be good for me, and then maybe one day I’ll open up the invitation to more than just my best friend?”

“Pass you around like a fucking joint, keeping us all warm and happy…” Bucky smirked as he gazed down at how they each greedily played with both of your holes, “yeah, look at her, she’d fucking love that…”

If it wasn’t for the loud curses both men then let out as they once more shoved you over the edge, you wouldn’t have noticed how your pussy began to cry around their digits, gushing fiercely as they then withdrew their touch, only to land a vicious row of smacks against your puffy petals, causing your overly sensitive pussy to squirt even further.

They kept on occasionally tapping their broad palms over your swollen cunt as you forgot what your own name was, their lips twisting up into a grin each time your frame jumped at the light impacts.

It took a long while for you to realise what the low grunts and the slick sounds were, though even when you finally heard them, you still didn’t have any clue just how long the two men had been stroking themselves, kneeled before your tempting haven. Perhaps it was a new development or maybe they had stopped resisting the second they began to play with you, reliving themselves to the front row seat they gave themselves.

And as they slowly rose up to stand before you, like towering boulders at the foot of the bed you layed melted against, all of the air escaped your lungs as your hazy gaze landed upon the cocks in their hands.

First, your eyes landed upon Steve, his throbbing girth enveloped in the missing panties he’d promised to return to you, as he squeezed them tighter around his dick with every stroke. But then when your stare drifted to Bucky, a smirk swiftly bloomed on his face at the way your jaw hit the floor. To say that he was large was the understatement of the century as the frat boy himself knew that if he wanted to have an easy career, then he could just become a pornstar and skyrocket to a legendary status overnight, simply because of his monstrously blessed equipment.

“So,” Bucky grunted as Steve beside him adjusted his grip and began to slip your messy panties back on and up your quivering legs, “who are you gonna pick to pop your cherry?” he briefly reached down to aid his friend before the cotton snapped back into place over your sensitive cunt.

“That’s not even a question,” Steve scoffed as he only let the underwear stay in its place for a second before his grip caught the waistband and yanked it down to flash your pussy once more, “it will be me.”

And as they both soon unravelled before you, each of them purposefully aimed at the exposed inner side of your underwear, their cum painting the soft cotton white, before Steve let go and it snapped back into place against your skin.

“There,” Steve smiled as he caught his breath, “now you can go to freshman orientation.”

As you scurried down the gothic halls of the university’s science building, your eyes drifted from door to door as you passed dozens of lecture halls, labs and offices. You weren’t even really sure if you were in the right building for what you were on the hunt for.

“You lost?” a voice then suddenly found you as you peeked your head into an empty classroom.

Spinning around, you saw an older man, surely a faculty member, paused in his leisurely stride and glancing up from the papers in his hand to gaze at you.

“I–, uhm, maybe,” you admitted, suddenly overcome with the fear that you had accidentally wandered into a restricted area, “you wouldn’t happen to know where Professor Parker’s office is–, unless of course, that’s you.”

Shaking his head, he said, “no, I’m Dr. Richards.”

“As in Dr. Reed Richards?” your eyes began to grow in admiration as you blinked back at the doctor, “the neurosurgeon who worked on that famous Alzheimer’s clinical trial a few years back?”

“Guilty as charged,” he smiled, shifting the papers in his hand to slot them under his arm.

“Oh wow,” you giggled, “I mean, I knew that you started teaching a course here, that’s actually part of the reason why I chose this school, but I just didn’t expect to–, I’m sorry, I’m just a big fan. I mean, you’re a rockstar,” you timidly gestured to him, “I hope to get into your class next semester, I’ve heard it fills up quite quickly.”

“Well,” he tilted his head, “maybe you could swing by my office one day and perhaps we could figure out a way for one of the spots to be reserved for you.”

“Seriously?” his obvious flirting flew straight over your head as you didn’t yet know of his rakish reputation, “that would be amazing.”

“Yeah, no problem,” the professor then turned to walk away, “and it’s the last office at the end of the hall, by the way.”

“What?”

“You were looking for Parker?” he reminded your starstruck mind, “end of the hall.”

“Oh, right,” you breathed and glanced in the direction his finger briefly pointed, “thank you.”

“No problem,” he smiled before disappearing around a corner.

As you neared the door, it stood slightly ajar, lending you to hear a deep voice quietly talking on the other side. Softly, you landed a few knocks before you carefully pushed it open.

Standing behind the desk in the middle of the room and illuminated by the tall window behind him, stood the bespectacled professor you searched for, with a phone pressed up against his ear as he murmured into it.

“Mhm, but it would just be Friday night,” he twisted around as he heard the threshold creak beneath your shoe. Briefly raising up a hand, he momentarily tilted the phone away from his lips to utter, “one moment, you can just have a seat,” he gestured to the chair on your side of the table before he then returned to the call, “are you sure? Okay, well, I’ll figure something else out… no, it’s alright, I get it,” he exhaled, “yeah, talk soon, bye,” before he hung up and sank down into his seat with a sigh, “sorry about that. Babysitter just cancelled on me.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” you waved a hand, “I’m sorry for just barging in, Professor Parker–, I mean doctor–, I mean–, uh…”

“Professor is fine,” he offered you a gentle smile to sooth your nerves, “what can I do for you?”

“Well, it’s about your class…” you slowly began, “I know that I’m technically too late to sign up, but I just wanted to see if there was any possible way there might be one last slot left that I could fill.”

“Oh,” he breathed in response.

“Really, I’d do anything,” you stated before then detouring to a different tactic, “you said something about needing a babysitter? Maybe I could help,” you offered your services, “I used to do it for many years, all the way through my teens till I started here, so maybe I could lend a hand.”

“I, uh…” his eyes narrowed as he thought it over.

“Please?” your lips couldn’t help but press together in a pout, “I’ve dreamt about taking your class on medical history for years and years. You’d be like a genie granting me a wish.”

And as he blinked back at you, the luck that evidently was on your side shocked you to your very core as he unexpectedly uttered, “…alright.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he slowly nodded, “but if there aren’t any seats left–”

“Then I’ll happily sit on the floor or stand in the very back,” you beamed, “thank you so much, sir.”

“Of course,” he exhaled before opening up a drawer in his desk and plucking out a piece of paper, “this is the list of the required books,” he pushed it across the table before your eyes began to scan the titles, “I’m not sure if there are any copies left at the library, but maybe you can talk to some students, who has previously taken the course, if they bought a copy that you could borrow.”

“I’ll make sure I have them, even if I’d have to steal them,” you jested.

“Well, I don’t think I should sit here and encourage you to commit a felony, but I guess if you do get arrested, I can be your one phone-call,” he chuckled and went along with your joke, “so, about the other thing.”

“Yes,” you exhaled, both of your palms floating down to rest atop your thighs, “the kid–, kids?”

“Just one, Benjamin, he’s six.”

“Oh, that’s a fun age,” you smiled, “so, was it Friday?”

“Yeah, I have to attend this thing that I can’t get out of and it’s my turn to have him this week, but my ex is also busy that day, so yeah,” he sighed, “how about you just come over here after your classes that day and then we’ll hash out the rest?”

“I will be there.”

“What are you doing here?” you grumbled as you opened the door to your dorm room.

“Well hello to you too, sunshine,” Bucky scoffed through a smile.

“What do you want?” you held your grip on the edge of the door.

“A thank you would suffice,” he tilted his head.

Squinting your eyes at the lack of context, you muttered, “what?”

“A little birdy told me you were looking for this?” he held up the book in his hand for you to spot, which just so happened to be the exact one you hadn’t been able to track down for Professor Parker’s class.

“Blood, Phlegm, Yellow and Black Bile: A Brief History of the Four Humors by Helen Grey?” you swiftly snatch it from his fingers with a gasp, “where did you find it? I thought there weren’t any copies left at the library!”

“There wasn’t,” he tilted his head, “I had a short stint back in my freshman year where I flirted with the fantasy of becoming a doctor, that was until I fell madly and deeply in love with journalism.”

Glancing down at the cover, you uttered, “can I borrow it?”

But instead, to your surprise, Bucky countered, “you can have it. It’s yours, I don’t have any use for it, except if I suddenly got a burning desire to press some flowers,” he jested about the thickness of the tome.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you blinked up at him with a smile before throwing your arms around his broad frame. Though as you hugged him, it didn’t take long before you pushed back to utter, “wait, this isn’t just some weird trick like last time, is it? Are you gonna make me do something dirty in return for the book?”

“I thought about it,” he admitted with a smirk, his gaze briefly dipping down your form, “but then I decided to just be nice.”

“What a foreign concept that must be for you…” you teased with the faint shake of your head, “glad you’re finally trying it out.”

“Oh yeah, I’m terrified I’ll break out into hives,” he chuckled, leaning against the doorframe, “don’t tell anyone else, I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

And as you smiled back at him, you noticed how gratitude wasn’t the only sensation stirring in your soul, as a warm and fuzzy feeling began to flicker throughout your frame from the genuine gesture.

“So…” his eyes briefly trailed around the room behind you, “where’s your roommate at?”

“At Delta Phi, hanging out with her girlfriend,” you murmured, “why?”

And as his glance landed on you once again and the corners of his lips twitched, you heard him ask, “can I come in?”

Sucking in a breath, you felt lightheaded as you uttered, “sure,” before stepping aside for him to enter.

And that was how your stepbrother’s best friend ended up sitting on your tiny bed, his back pressed up against the wall, as he drew you further down in his lap and let his tongue dance against your own in a heated kiss.

“I’m sorry, what?” you foggily tilted back as his muffled words flew over your head.

“Move your hips,” he repeated, both of his palms denting your sides, “Steve said you have a habit of humping your cute little teddy bears and pillows and such,” his eyes briefly flickered to the plushies on the mattress beside him, “so just pretend that I am one, use me to make yourself feel good.”

Blinking back at him a moment, it took you a while before you actually managed to make your pelvis move as the flabbergasted trance was harder to snap out of than you’d expected. Though as your hips cautiously rolled against his lap, a shaky breath slipped from your lungs as the friction of his palpable hardness nudging against your core caused you to shiver. It surely didn’t help matters either that the only thing shielding you from the sensation was the panties beneath your dress, which was quickly becoming so embarrassingly soaked that your want slowly began to stain the tent in his trousers.

“That’s it,” he groaned as he leaned back to watch your timid efforts, “fuck…”

At first, he let you steer the ship, carefully rocking down against him for an ounce of relief, but then when you tilted forward to capture his ravenous lips once again, his wide hands on your hips flexed before they took over your movements, instead rendering you just a puppet in his grasp as he grinded you down much more roughly than you’d dared to do on your own.

“Shit, I don’t get you… how could this be enough for you?” he grunted as he grew impatient, “isn’t every molecule in your body screaming for you to get railed right now? Doesn’t this little pussy finally wanna get used?”

“Buck, I–,” you panted as he nibbled against your neck, “I don’t know…”

“Oh, you don’t know?” he couldn’t help but mock.

“This feels r-really good to me,” your eyes fluttered as he kept on rocking you in his lap.

“Well, it’s not good enough for me,” he growled before finally snapping and flipping you onto your back. Hovering above you as you collapsed on the small bed, he began to unbuckle his belt.

“I-I–, Bucky, I don’t think I’m ready for that–,” your eyes went wide as you watched him free his intimidatingly giant cock.

“You sure? Not even a little bit?” he slowly began to twist his fist up and down the fat length, “it could just be the tip.”

Blinking down at the bulbous head, glistening with precum, you hazily shook your head, “n-no, it’s too big…”

“Oh, I know it is,” he then reached out to shift your legs, slotting his dick in between your soft thighs before he paused to let a dollop of spit drop down from his lips and add some slickness before he slowly began to move, “is it because of Steve? Because I can keep a secret… I won’t tell if you don’t…”

Your eyes flickered down to his fat girth as he slid it between your thighs that he pressed together, “I thought you two told each other everything.”

“Well,” he smirked as he ripped his stare away to glance to your fuzzy expression, “I’m willing to make an exception…”

Reaching down, he greedily squeezed your tits through the thin fabric of your dress, even catching your pebbly nipples in a pinch that caused you to gasp, before he slid his touch back down to either side of your legs.

“What are you doing Friday night?”

“Huh?” you panted as you were unable to tear your eyes away from his cock, slick between your trembling thighs.

“Come over, the frat’s throwing another party,” he uttered from above you, “maybe we could sneak away when everyone else is hammered enough…”

“I can’t, I have to babysit.”

“Really?” he chuckled as his efforts migrated so far south that the heavy weight of him came to rest against your covered core, each greedy thrust now sliding against the soaked cotton and making you whimper, “I didn’t know you were into daddies…”

“What?” you fought to comprehend his words as his fat girth skimmed across your clit, throbbing beneath the thin fabric of your underwear.

“Never mind, sweetie,” he gave up with a slight laugh.

Though as he stared down at your quivering form beneath him, his grip on the outside of your thighs tightened before he suddenly began to part them like the pages of a book.

“Oh, would you look at this…” he groaned as he revealed your sodden panties beneath his big cock, “you’ve fucking ruined these, haven’t you?” a teasing finger crept down to snap the waistband back against your skin, “you wanna feel me, huh? You wanna feel me right here?” he peered down at you as he tapped the heavy weight of himself against your covered centre.

“I–…”

Hooking his thumb in the side of the gusset, he peeled your panties to the side, “do you?” shiny strings clung to the fabric as he kept it trapped in his grasp.

“Yes,” you then uttered, surprising yourself as the only thing you could feel in this moment was your thumping heartbeat between your thighs.

“Atta girl,” he grinned before lowering the length in his grip down against your glistening pussy.

Trailing the bulbous tip through your wetness, he repeatedly parted your petals with his thick girth, the jarring comparison of his size directly against you making you dizzy. Though when his sweeping motion suddenly strayed further than before and he briefly held the entire length of him against, not only your cunt, but also your belly, then you feared you might actually faint beneath him.

“See that?” he smirked as his heavy sack nuzzled against your quivering entrance while the tip of him reached all the way up to cover your bellybutton, “that’s how deep I’m gonna get when you finally let me inside…” groaning as he finally swept back down to flick his hardness through your sobbing petals, he cocked his head, “might break you, rearranging your guts like that, but fuck will it feel good…”

And as you felt the world around you threaten to melt away in that blissful eruption you were slowly becoming more acquainted with, Bucky abruptly tore the intoxicating contact of his cock away from you. Though before you could part your lips in a complaint, your body instead quaked as he then tapped the hefty weight of himself repeatedly down against your puffy pearl, keeping the bullying up till you were writhing in pleasure beneath him.

You thought you’d only blinked your eyes shut for a moment in the fog of it all, but when they fluttered back open, Bucky’s hot load decorated your messy pussy as he kneeled by you, panting as he offered his length one last squeeze.

But just as you thought he’d let your panties snap back into place as a closing curtain to the show, he instead reached down to bully your tender core even further, smearing his cum against your aching clit before he swept his coated fingers down to tickle your leaky entrance in an attempt at stuffing as much of his load into your little hole as possible, though his greedy efforts eventually derailed when his fingers were stuffed so deep inside of you that you could barely breath at all, your nails digging into his forearm as he made you squirt all over your bed and the adorable teddy bears that layed scattered.

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reginyani · 4 months ago

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Wet Dreams | s.reid x fem!reader

summary: Spencer decides to call it a day and head to bed, where he has a vivid wet dream of one of his female coworkers at the BAU.

cw: 18+, mdni, nsfw, dom!reader, sub!spencer, fem!bau!reader, oral sex, blowjob, reader swallows, use of Y/N, wet dreams

wc: 1174

authors note: sorry for the inactivity on my account! decided to pay back for that with some spencer smut;) enjoy! if you did, like and reblog!

It was an ordinary night, or so Spencer thought. The hum of the lights in his apartment, the soft tick of the clock on the wall, and the familiar weight of the blanket wrapped around his lower body. Yet something was still different.

When he closed his eyes, the world around him slowly started to drift away into an even deeper atmosphere.

It started like any other dream he has had—disjointed, unclear—but soon it shifted, warped. He found himself still lying down, leaning up on his bed. The room was dimly lit, and the air was thick with unfamiliar tension. The walls were dark, shadowed, as though the room itself was alive and shifting with every passing second.

Before he could process what was happening, the sound of footsteps echoed through the space. He looked up from his covers and found you standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

It was you, his BAU co-worker. Unlike anyone he had ever seen, a vision so striking he forgot how to breathe for a second. Your eyes glowed deeply in the low light, and your presence radiated an intense, magnetic pull. You weren't just beautiful; you were something otherworldly. It was odd; he had never noticed it before. As you stepped closer, Spencer's heart skipped a beat.

"What are you... doing here?" He asked, his voice hoarse, as if his body were betraying him. It was unable to comply with his usual levelheadedness.

"What do you mean, silly? I've been here," you said, continuing to walk over to the edge of his bed.

"I—uh..." He's at a loss for words, raising an eyebrow as he watches your body sway side to side as your footsteps make noise against the wood floor.

Once you finally make it to his bed, you crawl onto it, on all fours, making your way up his body. You smirk, looking into his big brown eyes. You snatch the blanket off, throwing it somewhere to find some other time.

"I can give you exactly what you need, Spencer," you said, your voice soft and melodic, your words carefully crafted to seduce him. It made his pulse race, a sudden heat rising in his chest that he couldn't explain.

"Need?" He gulped, sitting up straighter as your body towered over his, his brain trying to catch up with the situation. "I don't... I don't understand," his sad brown puppy eyes staring into your glowing ones in confusion.

You leaned in, your face mere inches from his, your breath warm against his skin. "I'm what you need in this exact moment," you whispered. "A way to... release tension, free you from the weight of your thoughts. You think so much, analyzing everything, but sometimes... you need to have an escape."

His chest tightened at the suggestion, his mind racing with undignified thoughts. There was something about your presence that made it impossible for him to think straight. It was as if you knew every part of him, every desire, every worry he buried deep inside himself.

"You don't have to think anything," you murmured, your fingers brushing over the waistband of his pajama pants. "Just feel."

Spencer's breath hitched as he looked down at your hand. He always prided himself on his control, but here, in this strange dream, that control seemed to slip through his fingers. His mind screamed to not allow this to happen, but his body betrayed him as he let out a whimper in anticipation.

You smiled at his inner conflict, his whimper music to your ears. "You don't have to fight it," you continued to whisper to him, seductively. "Do you want this, Spencer?" you finally ask.

He looks back up at you before finally nodding his head. "...Yes."

You grin, quickly pulling down his pajama pants and boxers all at once. His cock sprung out, already hard. He looks away from the scene, closing his eyes in embarrassment.

"Don't be embarrassed, baby. It's just me," you say, reassuring him and his doubts about this. Although there was no turning back now.

You look back down to his throbbing member, taking it in your hand and stroking it slowly. He turns his head back over, his mouth opening as a low groan escapes his lips.

"Oh... oh." he let out, throwing his head back in pleasure. You looked up to see his messy brown curls fall from his slightly wet forehead, his image more beautiful than ever.

Pathetic. It turned you on.

You finally lean your head down, taking it in your mouth slowly, your lips gliding over him as your hand worked the rest that couldn't fit into your mouth. Your tongue began to swirl and flick against the tip, feeling the smooth surface in your mouth.

Spencer couldn't hold back anymore. His hands flung to your head, gripping your hair, and he pushed your head further, allowing his cock to be fully pushed into your mouth. He holds your hair back as you begin to bob your head up and down, gagging as his cock hits the back of your throat.

Spencer's legs began to shake slightly, moaning loudly. His shame wasn't apparent anymore, as he allowed himself to guide your head on his length, beginning to thrust his hips unwillingly.

"Fuck... Just like that." He continues to thrust, this time in a steady rhythm, sliding in and out of your mouth with a swishing sound. Your lips gripped around his cock, driving him closer to release. "God, Y/N. You're so... talented."

You look up at him, your eyes locking with his, filled with lust and desire. All his problems seemed to fade away, nothing on his mind but the feeling of your lips clenching against his cock. You moan slightly, sending vibrations up his length, making him stutter out a whimper.

"I'm... I'm close..." he warned, his voice low but filled with pleasure as you worked your mouth on him.

Suddenly, a loud whine escaped his mouth, his legs heavily shaking uncontrollably. He clutched the sheets, his knuckles turning white as a warm liquid began to fill your mouth.

You swallowed.

You slide your mouth off his cock with a loud pop, sitting upward as you gaze at his face.

"You did so well, baby." You cooed, praising him as you brushed a strand of his hair behind his ear. He sighed softly, his arms shaking as he struggled to keep his body up. "I'm glad I could help you escape, even if it wasn't real."

That was the last thing you said before his eyes opened, breathing heavily as he sat up in his bed. The remnants of the dream lingered in the edges of Spencer's mind. It had been so vivid, so real—the kind of dream where every detail felt significant. Spencer rubbed his temples, pulling fragments of the haze, but the more he thought about it, the further it seemed to fade away.

How was he gonna act when he saw you at work? He flipped his sheets off his hot body, then looked down at his pajama pants.

Fuck.

Is all he thought as he looked down at the wet splotch on his crotch.

tags:

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #matthew gray gubler #mgg #spencer reid smut #smut #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #smut fanfiction #fanfiction

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bumblebeesfromvenus · 3 months ago

Text

Eye Candy 🍬

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Jason Todd × chubby/curvy!reader

FINALLY. I've been wanting to get this out for forever but shit kinda hit the fan and I'm also sick right now lol

This is pure comedy. So much fun to write!! This is for all my thick girlies <3

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Jason wants you to meet his brother (Dick) and his best friend (Roy). As if that wasn't enough of a bomb, doubt starts to creep into your mind at the realization that your curves would make you stand out like a sore thumb in the Wayne family. Jason proves you wrong by taking you to a bar and letting Dick and Roy walk right into a trap.

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"You want me to what?"

"Hey, it's not that big of a deal-... yeah, no, it's... it's a big deal." Jason winced, brows furrowing while he flexed his hands around his mug.

Coffee- of course it was, though it was far too late in the day for even more caffeine, or so you'd scolded him once again.

You were staring at him, slack jawed, eyes widened just slightly as a brief huff of disbelief left your lips.

"Jay, you just told me you want me to meet your family. In what world is that not a big deal?!" You exclaimed, your tone a little more screeching than you'd liked.

He sighed, shoulders dropping ever so slightly, his eyes turned away as a frown etched itself onto his features.

"It's just Roy and Dick, s'not really meeting my family." He mumbled, toying with the handle of his cup, scratching his nails against the ceramic.

"Look, you don't have to, alright? I just thought-... I guess I don't really know what I thought."

Your heart ached. You've never seen him so defeated. So utterly downtrodden. His back slouched, head hung low while his gaze was focused on anything but you.

That heartbreaking glimmer in his eyes that never failed to make your own water.

Gently, you pried the mug from his grip and set it aside, taking his hands in yours.

The action made Jason avert his attention back to you, looking like a kicked puppy.

"I do want to meet them. I really, really do. Because they are your family, whether you want to admit it or not." You smiled softly, watching as he lit up immediately, a huff of relief making his chest feel lighter.

"I'm just nervous. And worried, I suppose? What they'll think, you know. I'm sure that I'm not exactly what they imagine when they think of your girlfriend." You chuckled nervously.

Jason, on the other hand, looked confused. Eyes narrowed, You-can-see-the-gears-turning-but-nothing-is-happening confused.

"What in the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

You cackled at the expression on his face and the goofy tone of his voice.

"Okay, let me put it like this. You're family is a bunch of buff, unfairly jacked and lean super geniuses. Not to mention how good the girls look. And Kori? She's a literal space princess! I just feel like I don't quite fit in. Can you imagine someone like me at one of those Galas? They would lose their minds-"

"'Someone like you? You mean a gorgeous, beautiful, stunning plump lady with a brain so big I sometimes wonder how your neck is still intact? You mean someone like that? Because we could use more of that, trust me." He chuckled dryly.

"Also, you're hot as fuck." He deadpanned, blankly staring at you.

You playfully rolled your eyes, tracing the space between his knuckles.

"A. I know, B. you're biased. I mean, they all probably expect you to date some super model." You explained, sighing.

You knew your worth. You knew that you were beautiful and perfect just they way you are, even beginning to love yourself.

But when challenged with a family full of hotties like the Wayne's plus Gotham's elite, it was hard not to feel just a little out of place with all your curves, bumps and pudge.

Jason's lips were pressed together in a thin line before he inhaled sharply and pinned you down with his gaze.

"Alright, first of all, they have no expectation of who I'd date because I was fuckin' dead, and when I came back my only interest was revenge and smashing peoples heads in. If anything they thought I would die alone."

The bluntness of his words and the expecting raise in his brows had you shell shocked, and pleasantly surprised.

"You're making problems for yourself that don't exist, ladybird." His tone turned soft as did his eyes, enveloping your heart in a blanket of warmth.

"So, respectfully, you don't have a point." He concluded for you, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied noise.

"Huh, I guess I don't." You breathed out, a smile spreading on your face while Jason already sported a wicked grin.

"There ya go. Now, can I brag about my hot, smart and curvaceous girlfriend to my dickhead brother and loser best friend? Because, sweetheart, you're one hell of a woman." He smirked, leaning in to get you all hot and bothered by his proximity.

You bit your lip, trying to act unaffected by his antics.

"Okay, fine," You groaned, feigning annoyance, "But only because I love you." You finished, failing to hide the smile on your face.

In one swift motion, Jason grabbed you and pulled you into his lap, your back pressed firmly to his chest. You let out a startled noise that morphed into a laugh.

"See? Just had to butter you up a bit, pretty girl." He nosed at your neck, a grin showing off his pearly whites while his arms were snaked around your middle.

"What can I say? You have a way with words." You smirked, looking back at him over your shoulder.

Jason chuckled and turned you in his lap, making you face him.

"I do have a very skilled tongue, as you know." He winked at you, kneading the fat of your hips in his hands.

You groaned and rolled your eyes before grinning and pinching his cheek.

"So, you up for tomorrow? It'll just be at a shitty bar somewhere. They won't judge you, I promise. And if they do, they can take it up with Fuck-" Jason raised one arm and flexed his bicep, "and You." With a wide smile, he lifted his other arm, and you watched as his muscles practically inflated.

You giggled, squeezing his arm with an approving nod of your head.

"I'll be there. I just have some errands to run, so I'll meet you at the place, yeah?" You replied sweetly, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Jason's face scrunched up at your kiss, making him look like an adorable little bunny.

"Sounds good, ladybird." He replied, smiling.

There was something hiding beneath that smile, though. Something sinister. Mischievous. You squinted your eyes at him.

"... What are you up to?" You asked suspiciously, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Who? Me? I'm not up to anything." He replied sweetly, batting his lashes at you.

"Mhm." You hummed, searching for a hint in his teal eyes.

You could see his resolve cracking, his gaze breaking from your for just a split second. You continued to stare at him. Jason cleared his throat and gave you a tight smile before striking.

Quickly, he pushed you off his lap, making you stumble to the floor of your living room on shaky legs before he lowered himself to the ground, hooking one arm around your knees and hoisting you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You screeched, digging your hands into his hoodie so you wouldn't fall.

"What the fuck! What are you doing?!" You screamed, cracking into a smile when you heard Jason cackle mischievously.

He moved quickly, rounding the couch and any obstacles with ease.

"Well, you see, I've been stumblin' over my words all day. Care to help me loosen up my tongue at bit, doll?" He grinned, hurrying to your bedroom.

"Jason!-"

Your voice burst with a laugh before you were interrupted by a loud crack when his hand met the back of your thigh.

You gasped, quickly followed by a slap against his clothed back.

"Remember that name, angel. I have a feeling you'll be using it a lot tonight."

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

"So, she coming?" Roy asked curiously, settling back into the deep-set lounge with his drink.

The redhead was seated in the middle, between the brothers, earning a shove and an annoyed eyeroll from Jason.

Dick snickered, taking a sip of his beverage.

"Why are you so obsessed with my girl, dude?"

"We just wanna make sure she's real. I'd hate to break you out of Arkham again, little wing." Dick grinned from behind the rim of his glass.

"Wow." Roy clicked his tongue, nodding along to the diabolical comment.

Jason only stared at his brother blankly, blinking once, then twice.

"Too far?" Dick asked, wincing slightly.

"Whaddya think, dickhead?" Roy sighed sharply.

"You should be so glad that I'm in therapy. Otherwise I woulda wiped the floor with you right now." Jason mumbled, taking a swig of his drink.

"It's the Piña Coladas talking." His brother chuckled awkwardly.

Jason just snorted, leaning against the soft cushions.

"To answer your question, yes, she's coming." Roy lit up, excitedly setting his beer down on the table.

"Really? So we get to meet the fabled ladybird, huh?" The redhead grinned, bumping his shoulder with Jason's.

He only shook his head and playfully rolled his eyes at Roy.

"Why didn't she come with you, then?" Dick asked, brows furrowed.

"Had to stop by the craft store." Jason replied simply, finishing his drink.

"Oh, so it's like that? You really did get yourself a pretty little thing, didn't you?" Dick smirked, watching as Jason chuckled in response.

"Dickhead's right. They not only make pieces of art, they are ones." Roy agreed.

Dick scoffed at the nickname.

"She's pretty alright. Looks like she belongs in the Louvre." Jason responded with a smile, then immediately regretting that decision when Roy and Dick began to look like the cheshire cat.

"Ooooo, Jay's in looooove." Roy teased with a chuckle.

"Did little wing find an even littler wing? That's adorable." Duck sniffled, wiping a faux tear from his lashline.

Jason grumbled in response, flipping them off.

"At least I didn't cheat on my girl." He mumbled sharply, hiding behind his second -or third?- glass of the night.

Dick's smile fell and he was reduced to a muttering mess, pouting like a child.

"God, you guys are actual children. Can I have one night-"

they both glanced at Roy when he stopped speaking, his lips parted as he stared at the entrance of the bar.

"You're lettin' flies in, carrot top." Jason said blankly.

Roy let out a low whistle, loosely gesturing to the bar before a smirk cracked on his face.

"Look at that piece of Eye Candy over there."

Dick followed his line of sight.

"Fuck me." He cursed, eyes wide.

"Look at those hips, jesus-"

"Now that's a woman."

Jason was mid sip, uninterested in this mystery woman ordering a drink at the bar. But, he glanced up anyway, only to choke on his drink when his eyes landed on you.

He sputtered, coughing as he felt the alcohol go up his nose.

"Woah, she got you good, didn't she?" Roy teased with a laugh, patting his back.

"Yep.." Jason croaked out, holding back a laugh.

"I'm telling ladybird." Dick said quickly.

Snitch.

"When will she be here anyway? It's been a while." He questioned, pulling up his sleeve to take a look at his watch.

"Soon, soon.." Jason replied, clearing his throat.

"Man, she could sit on me, and I'd thank her. And that rack-"

Roy continued letting his eyes trail over your body.

As amusing as Jason found this little misunderstanding, he couldn't help but grind his teeth and clench his fists.

Meanwhile, Dick delivered a slap to the back of Roy's head.

"Pervert! You don't talk about women like that." He scolded the redhead.

"Says you! As if you don't wanna be suffocated by those thighs or-or knock out on that tummy, I know you do!" Roy said sharply, pointing an accusing finger at Dick.

"Of course I do, but I didn't say it out loud, now did I?" He replied in a condescending tone.

"You fucking-"

"Oh, look, she's approaching us." Jason said nonchalantly, leaning back into the cushions with a grin, watching as the petty bickering between his brother and best friend stopped immediately.

"I call dibs! I saw her first." Roy said quickly, straightening his posture and trying to look unbothered while you approached.

"God fucking dammit." Dick cursed, being left to grumble with his Piña Colada.

He looked at Jason, who was comfortably leaned back with a smirk.

"How are you so chill about this?!" Dick asked irritated.

"You'll see." Jason grinned.

You walked towards them with a smile, the drink you'd just ordered at the bar in your hand. Roy put up his most charming face and quickly cleared his throat.

"Hello there, sweethea-"

his entire face dropped when you placed a hand on Jason's shoulder and pressed a kiss to his lips. His hands instinctively went to rest on your hips, giving them a gentle squeeze.

"Hi, baby." You greeted sweetly.

"Hey there, ladybird." Jason grinned, glancing at Roy and Dick.

The redheads jaw was on the floor, speechless while his gaze flitted between you and his best friend. Dick was just as shocked, but quickly broke out of it.

"THAT’S LADYBIRD?!" He yelled, earning harsh stares from other guests.

Dick quieted down with an apologetic smile and leaned closer to Jason.

"You fucking asshole! Why didn't you do anything? You let us say all those things-" at the realization Dick went pale.

"He's gonna beat our asses." Roy mumbled, still staring at you and Jason.

"... Fuck."

You just stood there dumbfounded while Jason had a grin on his face that made a shiver run down Roy's spine.

"What things?" You asked, you brows furrowed in confusion.

Jason pulled you into his lap, resting one of his hands on your thigh.

"Don't worry about it, angel." He said softly, pecking your cheek.

"How the hell did you end with such a charity case as Jason?" Roy asked bluntly, slumped in his seat, defeated.

"Excuse me?" You sputtered with a scoff.

"That's a lot of nerve coming from someone looking like an affair baby." You shot back.

Dick burst out laughing, Jason cackling along side him while Roy only stared at you.

"And she's feisty? Fuuuuuuck.." He whined.

"Nice to meet you, ladybird." Dick gave you a friendly smile and nod, still wiping the tears from his eyes.

You returned the smile before leaning in to whisper into Jason's ear.

"Is the rest of your family also like this?"

"Like what?"

"Loudmouth assholes." You replied, staring straight at Roy who looked like you just slapped his mother.

Jason laughed, throwing his head back when he saw Roy's face.

"Ah, no. Some of them are quiet assholes."

Dick scoffed, immediately defending himself and his siblings with big hand gestures.

You chuckled as you watched.

"Don't be sad, carrot top," Jason began, giving Roy's shoulder a squeeze, "You couldn't handle her if you tried."

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Jason loves fat girls. Argue with the wall <3

Let me know what you think! 😚🩷

More of Jason and others -> 💫

《DC Taglist》: @allysunny @arkhamknightscxnt @gaozorous-rex-blog @hellonhells-x

Comment to be added 🐝🫧

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#bumblebeesfromvenus #jason todd fluff #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x fem!reader #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x fem!reader #chubby! reader #x chubby reader #curvy!reader #fat reader #fat!reader #x plus size reader #plus size reader #roy harper #dick grayson #dc x reader

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beloveds-embrace · 6 months ago

Note

Hello! Thank you for feeding us the angstier timeline of the dukedom au!! I live for angst

You don’t have to entertain this thought ofc, the angst and how good you write for my brain worms worming. I just can’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if König wasn’t there and instead the duchess had to suffer all on her own

(Or better yet, if he was there but ended up also leaving the duchess for someone else or was killed protecting the duchess)

Reader having to endure everything on her own which eventually leads her to falling terribly ill and in the olden times we all know how a simple cold could turn into more and yield deadly results

The stress combined with the overall lack of appetite (and the food not cooked well at times to add to that… more angst (: ) as well as other factors rendered the reader terribly ill

Maybe she fell into a body of water and had to save herself, or maybe she was caught up in a rainy storm on a walk with no one offering her warm clothing or a cover up until she eventually managed to get back that leads to pneumonia

Maybe she gets injured but hides it until the blood loss gets to her and infection sets in

Just so many options and flavours of angst

Anyway, thank you for sharing your writing with us! Agin, you don’t have to engage with this, so please don’t feel pressured!! I’m just having many thoughts and am currently going feral /pos

WAITTT WAIT I LOVE THIS

Because imagine clinging to König, to your one singular source of comfort in a manor that has no room for you, and in the end, he leaves as well.

You had been telling yourself that you had been simply more imaginative lately; König was simply busy, he wasn’t growing more and more distant! The way he looks at you now compard to before hasn’t changed. At all. His responses were in hums and nods, noncommittal but that’s okay, sometimes you did not feel like speaking- like existing- either.

Until he stands in your office, the light from the windows reflecting off his armour. You had been happy to see him, a smile on your lips to be in the company of the only one who didn’t seem to despise you.

When he tells you that he will not be doing this anymore, it feels, for a very split second, like your heart shatters into a thousand tiny pieces. You can feel the shattering of each, single piece.

Better place. He says, pity in his eyes but no regret. He pauses for a second. I wish… the best for you.

König leaves you like that; staring after his back in abject horror. Every step he takes echoes in your ears, until you are left alone in your office, hands trembling, and your ears ringing.

After that day, everything practically crumbled. You crumbled.

Without him, the weight of your isolation became unbearable. The disdain of the household grew sharper once it became known your only solace was no longer there, the whispers more cutting. Meals came cold, uneaten. Sleep eluded you, and the constant stress gnawed away at your strength.

One fateful day, you went outside in a desperate bid to escape the suffocation. The air was crisp, the sky gray with the promise of rain, and yet you still did not turn back. You wandered farther than you intended, your steps aimless even as the first drops began to fall.

The storm came quickly afterwards, drenching you to the bone. Your thin cloak offered little protection, and the chill seeped deep into your skin. By the time you returned, trembling and soaked, no one was waiting to help you. No fire had been lit in your chambers; no warm blanket was offered, and no company was given.

The fever began that very night, burning through you with a strength that left you bedridden. Days passed in a haze of pain and delirium. The wound you had hidden- an injury from your fall in the storm- festered, the infection spreading rapidly through your weakened body. You hadn’t the strength to call for help, nor the faith that anyone would come even if you did hoarse out your voice in your attempts.

Only when your condition worsened and you really, truly disappeared out of view, the household finally took notice. Whispers swirled, faint echoes beyond the fog of your fading consciousness, and everyone became alert of your absence, meals returned untouched and maids reporting it’s weeks since they’d helped you with anything.

John sat in his study, nursing a glass of whiskey as the fire crackled in the hearth. He told himself your absence didn’t matter- that you were retreating because you’d finally realized the truth. But when he closed his eyes, he saw your face as it had been on your wedding day- hopeful, trusting, and unaware of the coldness that would greet you.

Simon found himself pacing the halls around your room more often than usual. He would glance toward your chambers but never step inside, convincing himself it wasn’t his concern. And yet, something about the silence unsettled him.

Johnny had begun to notice the meals sent to your chambers were left untouched, the plates returned barely touched or sometimes not taken at all. He hadn’t cared at first, dismissing it as you sulking because no one was giving you attention. But now the thought lingered- had you even been eating at all?

Even Kyle, with his sharp tongue and sharper gaze, felt the unease creeping in. He found himself hesitating when passing your door, his usual indifference cracking as guilt gnawed at him.

In the end, it’s Kyle who couldn’t stand the silence anymore. He stepped into your room, telling himself it was simply to prove to himself that you were fine and just- sulking.

The sight stopped him cold.

The room was dim, the curtains drawn, and the air heavy with the faint, sour scent of illness. You lay motionless on the bed, your body shockingly frail, your skin damp with fever. Your hair clung to your forehead, and your breathing was shallow, each breath rattling in your chest.

You didn’t even notice him. Not even when he turned around and barked sharply for John, for a doctor now. You didn’t notice him at all. Not him, not John or Simon or Johnny when they appear while the maids run to get the doctor.

(Kyle will never tell anyone how utterly sick he felt upon seeing the dried tear-tracks on your face. The unfinished, rotten meals near the bed. The tear spots on your pillows. He will never, ever forget today. He doubts any of the others will be able to do so, either.)

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pitlanepeach · 26 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Eight

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, fluff (iktr), Jos Verstappen, mentions of being touch starved.

Notes — Lando Norris (Rizzless, full of yearning & very dumb).

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

2020

The house was too quiet.

Not just empty, but hollow.

Amelia sat curled up on the carpet of the living room, knees tucked to her chest, her golf ball rolling in one hand; forward, back, forward, back. The familiar weight and texture helped, but only a little. Her thoughts were louder than usual. Less cooperative.

She had the lights dimmed. She always did when her parents weren’t home. No overheads. Just the little amber glow of the corner lamp, warm enough not to audibly hum.

It was nearing 1 a.m. but she hadn’t moved in hours. Alex’s latest simulation results were still open on her laptop, long since idle. A blanket had fallen half off the couch behind her. Her phone sat face-down on the rug, and every so often she’d stare at it.

Her brain kept doing it… that thing where it picked up one moment from months ago and turned it over and over like a stone with a crack in it. Lando smiling at someone else across the paddock the day after he stopped answering her texts. Lando walking past her in the paddock, head down, pretending not to see her.

She knew, rationally, that not everything was her fault. That sometimes people made decisions for reasons they couldn’t articulate, and sometimes those reasons had nothing to do with her. She knew that. But her brain didn’t care about logic at 1 a.m.

And so she sat there, golf ball in hand, spiralling quietly.

Then, without planning to, she reached for her phone. Flipped it over. Opened their last thread, months cold, and started to frantically type.

—

iMessage — 12:35am

Amelia If I asked you to come over right now, would you?

She stared at the message. Thumb hovering. No. That wasn’t right. It didn’t explain. He wouldn’t understand.

She deleted it. Started over.

Amelia: I’m overthinking again. I’m trying to blame myself for things I logically know aren’t my fault. But I’m stuck in it. And I don’t want to be alone. I know it’s late. I’m sorry. But if you’re awake, and if you still care, I’d like you to come over. Please.

She paused. Shook her head. Deleted it all.

She didn’t even know if he was in the country. That would be a better place to start.

Amelia: Are you in Woking?

Sent.

She dropped the phone onto the carpet and curled tighter around herself, her golf ball now tucked under her chin. She didn’t expect a reply.

But two minutes later, the screen lit up.

Lando Norris: Yes…?

Her fingers shook, but she didn’t let herself hesitate this time.

Amelia: I’m home alone. Come over. I am still angry at you, but I’m ready to talk to you now.

A beat.

Lando Norris: Ok im omw like right now

She exhaled. Just once.

And waited.

—

By the time Lando arrived, twenty-five minutes later, Amelia had turned off every light in the downstairs of the house. The golf ball was on the kitchen counter. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled over her hands. She didn’t meet him at the door; just unlocked it and left it slightly open before retreating to the living room.

She heard it click shut behind him, heard the rustle of his shoes coming off, his jacket too, and then his tentative footsteps.

“Hey,” he said from the hallway.

“Hello,” she replied, without looking up.

He hovered. “Do you want to shout at me?”

“No.” She frowned. She hated shouting, didn’t do it unless she couldn’t control it.

Lando let out a soft, nervous laugh and made his way into the living room. She was curled on the far end of the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, legs tucked tight. Her face was mostly shadowed except for the flicker of the lamp light.

He stood there, just looking at her, like he couldn’t believe that he was really stood there and the whole thing wasn’t some vivid dream. “You meant it? That you’re ready to talk?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it,” she said flatly.

“Right. Yeah, obviously,” he murmured, sinking into the opposite end of the couch, careful not to get too close. “Sorry. I just… when you texted me, I didn’t even think. I just got in the car.”

She looked at him then. Really looked.

“Did you speed?” she asked, sharply.

Lando blinked at her, a bit startled. “No!”

“Because if you crashed on the way over here, I’d feel responsible,” she said plainly. “And I don’t want to feel responsible for you right now.”

He winced. “Okay. That’s… yeah. Okay.”

Silence fell between them. Amelia ran her thumb across the edge of the blanket, grounding herself with the texture.

“Why didn’t you talk to me?” she asked, abruptly, because he obviously didn’t realise that she’d been waiting for him to fill the silence. “Why didn’t you just say, ‘I don’t want to be your friend anymore’? Why did you ghost me?”

Lando let his head drop back against the couch. “I know. I was just… a proper idiot,” he muttered. “But I didn’t know what to say.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What does that even mean? You’re here, aren’t you? So you need to say something, or maybe you should just leave.”

He let out a deep breath, scrubbing a hand through his hair, looking at her, his eyes soft and hazy. “It means I’m twenty and stupid and scared and people were telling me what to do and I listened to them. And then I missed you so much it made me sick, but by then I didn’t know how to fix it.”

She frowned at him. “Who was telling you what to do? Our dads?”

He nodded slowly. “And Max—” She sucked in a sharp breath, and he immediately clarified. “Fewtrell. Not Verstappen.” Her jaw unclenched, but only slightly, the tension in her shoulders still high and wired. “Your Max told me I was an idiot,” Lando went on, voice softer now. “My Max just… didn’t get it. I don’t think he meant any harm, he just… he thought this was all just a bit of fun, y’know? A risk.” He looked at her then, eyes searching. “But it wasn’t. Not to me. And not to you either. I know that now.”

“That’s so stupid.” She said, her voice quiet, staring at him with… something burning in her chest that she didn’t recognise. “I- I was never a risk. I would’ve been happy just to be your friend.” She told him, then shrugged. ��You were just stupid and didn’t talk to me… are you planning on still being stupid?” She asked.

He grinned weakly, shuffling closer to her end of the sofa. “Not that stupid. Just, like… medium stupid now. My normal level.”

She didn’t smile, but the corner of her mouth twitched. A little. Maybe.

“I need to know what you want,” she told him, voice low, a little uncertain. “I need clarity. Definitions. Parameters.”

“Okay,” Lando said instantly, sitting up a little straighter. “I want to be your friend again. But I also want to be the person you come to first when you need something. And… I want to take you on dates. And I want to be allowed to be jealous when I see you with other guys.”

Amelia blinked at him. Frowned. “That’s not very logical.”

“Nope,” he said, with a crooked smile. “But it’s honest.”

She went quiet, considering. Calculating. “You want exclusivity.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I want you.”

She tilted her head slightly, watching him like she was trying to determine if he was being serious. “That’s a lot to ask.”

“I know,” he said, quieter now. The grin softened into something more sincere, if a little self-deprecating. “But I’ll prove I’ve learned my lesson, yeah? I won’t let anyone else’s opinion get in my head again. Just… we can let this be ours. The only people that matter in this are me and you.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the edge of the blanket in her lap. Her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “That sounds… nice.”

Lando’s eyes softened. “I can make it nice for you. I promise.”

She looked at him for a long time, visibly sorting through every word, every possibility.

Then, finally, she swallowed and said, “I want you to hug me.”

Lando looked stunned, eyes going big. “What— I— Right now?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

He didn’t hesitate. He shifted over, cautiously, as if afraid she might change her mind. He wrapped his arms around her, gently at first, but she tensed.

“No,” she said. “Tighter.”

He pulled her closer, arms firm around her now, cheek pressing into her hair. She didn’t resist. In fact, she melted into him with a shudder of… relief? That’s what it felt like.

Her voice was muffled when she spoke again. “I still don’t forgive you.”

“I know,” he murmured, and then kissed the top of her head, just because he could. “I’ll keep being sorry for as long as it takes.”

—

Amelia sat across from Adrian, a half-finished plate of risotto in front of her, her attention fixed on the data tablet between them.

“I’m still not convinced about the changes to the front wing,” she mumbled, tapping twice on the screen to enlarge the image. “We’re losing more downforce at medium-speed corners than we’re gaining on the straights.”

Adrian leaned back, chewing thoughtfully. “Eh. I accounted for that. It’s a tradeoff, but one I’m willing to make on circuits like Baku. The trick will be making it modular enough to swap depending on track characteristics.”

“Or,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “we build in a collapsible adjustment into the lower element. Something passive. Nothing movable.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You want to trick the air?”

She shrugged. “I want to learn how to communicate with it.”

Adrian chuckled, a quiet, almost imperceptible sound. “You are dangerous when you’re well-fed, Miss Brown.”

“And you’re indulgent with your compliments when I’m right about something,” she shot back, just as quietly.

They were silent for a while after that. Amelia swiped between sketches on her iPad, adjusting airflow lines and drag coefficients with brisk finger movements. Adrian seemed to procure a pen out of nowhere in order to scribble onto a napkin.

Then came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

Amelia looked up and immediately went stiff. “Dad.” She said.

Zak Brown stood at the edge of the table, hands in his pockets, his usual confidence dampened into something smaller, more hesitant. “Sorry to interrupt. Adrian.”

Adrian nodded politely. “Zak.”

“I was hoping,” Zak said, directing the next part at his daughter, “to talk. Just for a minute.”

Amelia didn’t answer immediately. She just stared at him, expression unreadable. She looked more like her mother in that moment; sharp, poised, utterly unmoved.

Adrian glanced at her, then stood, placing his napkin beside his plate. “I’ll go check on the, ah, the thing. Don’t let him steal my dessert, Amelia.”

She gave him a tight nod. “I won’t.”

Zak slid into the vacated seat. He looked so out of place in the sleek Red Bull setup.

“You look good,” he offered, gently.

“That’s irrelevant,” Amelia said flatly. She folded her hands in her lap, her expression unmoved. “What do you want?”

Zak blinked. “I just wanted to talk. No team hats. No politics. Just me. Your dad.”

Her jaw flexed.

Outside, the drone of engines buzzed faintly. A plane banked overhead. The world kept spinning.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she said, each word cut with the precision of a scalpel. “You were mad at me for joining Red Bull. Now I’m mad at you for thinking that you had any right to be mad at me for doing it.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“If you didn’t believe in me, you could’ve just said so,” she continued. “But instead you decided to hide how valuable I was — you even managed to hide it from me.”

Zak looked stricken, like he hadn’t expected the blunt edge of her precision to turn on him. “It wasn’t like that,” he said softly. “I didn’t want to hold you back. I didn’t.”

“You didn’t hold me back,” she corrected. “You just… made me feel like less than I am.” She pushed her plate slightly away and picked up her tablet again. “If you want to speak to me next time, send an email. Don’t come to my workplace uninvited.”

Zak hesitated. His lips parted, some apology or explanation balancing on the edge of his tongue, but it was too late. She was already reading again, eyes back on CFD simulations, focus recalibrated.

Eventually, he nodded and stood. Quietly. Almost like he knew he was walking away from something that might never be the same again.

Adrian returned a moment later, setting a fresh cup of coffee down in front of her.

“Thanks,” Amelia murmured, not looking up.

He sat down again, resuming his notes.

They fell back into silence.

Only this time, it was heavier. And Amelia, despite her fixed stare on the airflow diagrams, felt all out of sorts.

—

Max had finished the Styrian Grand Prix on the podium, but it wasn’t enough. Not to him. Not with how close the win had been… close, but not close enough.

She’d sat with him after the race in his driver’s room, quiet while he paced, letting him unload every frustration, every tenth he felt he’d lost. She wrote it all down, every word, every critique, in the little black notebook she kept just for days like this.

Tomorrow, she’d take it to Adrian. They’d sit down, just the two of them, and dissect the upcoming update package slated for three races from now. She already had ideas, ways to tweak the beam wing, something about airflow around the bargeboards that had been bothering her all weekend.

But for now…

The movie played quietly in the background, some old comedy Lando had picked from Netflix, but Amelia barely registered the dialogue. Her legs were tucked beneath her, her back propped against the headboard, while Lando sprawled out on his stomach at the foot of the bed, idly flicking a piece of popcorn into the air and catching it in his mouth.

He missed half of them. She didn't say anything. She liked the way he grinned every time he caught one, proud of himself even for something so silly.

Amelia’s hands were clenched into fists beneath the throw blanket. Not from anger, but from restraint.

She wanted to touch him.

It was driving her slowly, irreversibly mad; how close he was. The slope of his shoulder. The way his hair flopped messily across his forehead. The familiar line of his jaw. Her brain kept imagining her hands pressing there, her cheek resting between his shoulder blades, her arms slipping around his waist.

She hadn’t touched anyone in days. She hadn’t touched him since Woking.

And her skin itched with it. That deep, crawling, ache-for-pressure kind of need that always built when she tried to push it down.

“I miss you being in my garage,” Lando said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Her eyes flicked to him. “You still see me every day in the paddock.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same.” He shifted onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at her. “It’s weird not having you with my engineers. They miss you too, you know. The McLaren team. They still talk about you all the time. Especially Chris.”

Amelia stared at him. “Chris used to say all the time that I was intimidating.”

“Yeah,” Lando grinned. “He still says that. But now it’s in a weirdly affectionate way. Not sure I like it.” He pulled a face.

Amelia allowed herself a small smile, eyes flicking over him with quiet curiosity. Ah. There it was; that little edge in his voice. The subtle shift in his posture.

So he really was serious. That jealousy he’d mentioned before wasn’t a passing joke. It was real, simmering just beneath the surface, slipping out in moments like this.

He was a very jealous man.

And apparently, not very good at hiding it.

Thinking about his jealousy had been a distraction, brief, fleeting, but now even that was tangled up in it. The way he got all possessive and fidgety when she mentioned other people, the way his jaw tensed when she told him about her relationships within the Red Bull team, the way he looked at her like she was already his, and no one else had a chance.

It should’ve annoyed her. It did annoy her. A little. But mostly… it just made her feel warmer. More aware of him. Of how close he was, right there beside her on the hotel bed, limbs relaxed, hoodie sleeves pushed up, expensive watch catching the soft light from the TV.

She clenched her toes. Pressed her knees together. Tried to focus on the movie. On the background music, on the plot, on literally anything else.

It didn’t work.

“You’re really quiet tonight,” Lando told her, eyebrows raised slightly. “What’s going on in that smarty-pants brain of yours?”

Amelia hesitated. Thought about brushing it off. About lying. But that wasn’t how they’d agreed to do this. They were supposed to always be honest with each other.

“I want to touch you,” she said plainly.

Lando froze. Then blinked. “Uh. Okay.”

She winced slightly, pulling the blanket higher. “Not like that. Not; well. I mean. Not necessarily. I just—” she exhaled sharply. “My brain wants pressure. From you. And I can’t focus on anything else.”

His face shifted; concern, understanding, something tender blooming behind his eyes.

“You could’ve just said something,” he murmured, sitting up. “You know you don’t have to ask twice with me.”

Her voice was small. “I don’t want to cross a line.”

He reached out then, slow, letting her see his hand coming before it landed lightly on her blanket-covered shin. “Hey. You tell me what you need. You’re the boss here.”

She stared at his hand for a moment. “Can I lie on you?”

He blinked. “Like…on me?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“…Okay, yeah. Yeah. That’s, uh, that’s cool.”

Within seconds, she was curling into him. Her cheek pressed to his chest, her arms wound tight around his waist, and he stilled completely; like she was something precious and breakable.

“More,” she mumbled into his chest. He smelled good, like mens body wash and Dove bar soap. “Tighter.”

He obeyed instantly, arms coming around her, pulling her flush against him. She melted. Her muscles unspooled. Her fingers unclenched.

Lando dipped his head to press his cheek against her hair. “Is this good?”

She nodded, face buried in the soft fabric. “Yes.”

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2020 F1 Grid

George R. Can someone tell Amelia she left her iPad again please 😭

Charles L. She left it on a tyre stack next to the Ferrari garage earlier today

Carlos S. She treats technology like it’s disposable

Alex A. Not me tempted to open it and check her car design sketches...

Max V. Don’t. I’ll come get it, George.

Lando N. I’ll get it.

Valtteri B. 👀👀👀

Pierre G. Hold up what

George R. That was awkwardly timed

Charles L. Lando I thought you had ghosted her?

Alex A. He def ghosted her. That was a thing.

Max V. He did.

Daniel R. Uh oh. Maxie is angry 😬

Lando N. Okay yeah I did, but I apologised. We’re cool now, okay? So leave it out.

Carlos S. Grid never forgets

Sebastian V. Lando, she has forgiven you? Are you… friends now?

Lewis H. Is Max okay with this? Because I’m not okay with this.

Max V. No. I am not okay with it. DAT IS LETTERLIJK MIJN ZUS. ALS HIJ HAAR WEER PIJN DOET, VERMOORD IK HEM. (That is literally my sister. If he hurts her again, I will kill him.)

George R. Hands up if you just Google Translated that

Charles L. LORE DROP

Kimi R. Ah Max, is she another of Jos’ love children?

Alex A. They’re not actually related guys

Daniel R. No, just emotionally adopted Verstappen-style. Honestly, that’s more terrifying

Lando N. I SAID I’M BEING SERIOUS ABOUT HER NOW, OKAY? I’M NOT STUPID ANYMORE. I MEAN IT.

Lewis H. You’re twenty.

George R. Statistically, you’re probably still stupid

Daniel R. I’m not taking sides, but also… Max’s unhinged brother energy is kind of beautiful

Charles L. Agreed. Threatening murder in Dutch has a certain poetry

George R. So who is coming to get the iPad?

Max V. Me. She needs it for her work. At Red Bull. Where she belongs.

Lando N. Fucking hell, mate I get it Don’t need to rub it in.

—

The hum of the Red Bull garage wrapped around Amelia. The RB16 sat gleaming under the fluorescent lights, half a dozen mechanics orbiting around it. She stood off to the side, tablet in hand, stylus between her teeth, watching the numbers stream in from Max’s first systems run.

She was mid-sentence on a note to Adrian, something about rear tire temps in sector three, when a quiet, unmistakably firm voice cut through her concentration.

“Amelia.”

She turned. Jos Verstappen.

She hadn’t seen him up close since the day she signed with Red Bull. Now, in the garage, he looked the same; flat expression, arms loosely folded, presence heavy despite his silence.

“Mister Verstappen,” she said, adjusting her posture. “Hello.”

His eyes swept over the tablet in her hand, then to the car. “You’ve been busy.”

“I’m always busy,” Amelia agreed. “That’s the job.”

“I heard the changes to the under-tray and rear brake ducts came from you,” he said. “They’re working very well. Max is impressed.”

She squinted. “Of course they’re working. I ran the data half a dozen ways before I even suggested the update. I don’t like to waste people’s time on bad ideas.”

His mouth twitched. “You’re very confident.”

“No,” she said, finally glancing up from her tablet to look at him. “I’m correct. That’s different.”

Jos let out a low, quiet huff of amusement. “I like people who say what they think.”

She tilted her head. “I don’t see the point in saying anything else. It’s inefficient.”

That made something flicker in his expression; curiosity, maybe. Or calculation.

“Max appreciates honesty,” he added, watching her closely.

“I’m not honest for his sake.”

He paused. Then looked back to the car. “You’ve helped improve it. That’s obvious. Which is why I’ll ask this directly.”

She glanced up again, wary now. “Okay.”

“I want you focused entirely on Max,” Jos said. “Not just as a Red Bull employee. As part of his team. Private. Full-time. I’m prepared to make it official. I’ll buy out your Red Bull contract if I need to.”

Amelia blinked once. “No.”

He didn’t flinch. “That’s a quick answer.”

“Because I’ve thought about this before,” she said simply. “And my answer’s the same. I’m not leaving Adrian.”

“You could build your own legacy with Max.”

“I can still do that while working for Red Bull,” she replied. “Adrian lets me experiment. He listens when I speak. And I want to learn everything he knows before I try leading anything on my own.”

Jos’s jaw ticked. “And you think that outweighs the opportunity I have put in front of you?”

“I think long-term. Adrian Newey is the greatest car designer alive. Every day I work with him is an honour. And if Max wants a championship, he’ll get it. I’ll be part of that. But I will do it with Adrian or I will not do it at all.”

“You're ambitious,” he muttered, after a heavy pause. “But not greedy. That’s rare.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned back to her tablet, fingers swiping across the screen.

Jos studied her. His gaze was heavy, pressing. Then, finally, he said, “If you were my dochter, I wouldn’t let your talent go to waste. I’d protect it. Nurture it. Push you toward bigger and better.”

Amelia looked up again, cool and unreadable. “I would not be able to work with Max if I was your daughter. That would be a conflict of interest.”

That finally made him laugh. Quiet and sharp and vaguely dangerous. A glimmer of respect in the way his eyes narrowed. “I’ll respect your decision,” he said at last. “But I’ll ask again.”

“I’ll probably still say no.” She shrugged.

Jos gave a single nod. Then turned and walked away without another word, disappearing into the back of the garage.

Amelia scrunched up her nose, muttered something under her breath, and went back to her data like nothing had happened.

She didn’t notice the wide-eyed engineers still watching her — silent, stunned, impressed.

—

Ted Kravitz’s Qualifying Notebook – Hungarian Grand Prix 2020

"Alright, let’s get into it. We’re here at the Hungarian Grand Prix, and there’s something on everyone's minds right now. Well, a couple of things, but one of them in particular is the ever-growing interest in Amelia Brown."

He flicks through his notes briefly.

"Now, Amelia is the new kid on the block for Red Bull. Already making waves after just a few races. We’ve seen some huge improvements to the car's performance, especially with that under-tray and rear brake duct work she introduced. The engineers and Max, they’re all praising her contributions. But let’s be clear though, this isn’t just about her technical brilliance. It’s about her presence on the grid."

Cut to some shots of Amelia in the garage, clipboard in hand, as she discusses the car’s setup with Adrian Newey, looking fully unaware of the chaos surrounding her.

"Now, there’s something interesting happening here. When she first joined Red Bull, everyone was wondering how this would affect the dynamics, and we’ve certainly seen some whispers. Most notably, there’s been talk of Jos Verstappen eyeing Amelia pretty closely. I mean, this guy is never shy with his opinions, and his recent conversation with Amelia raised some eyebrows."

Cut to a clip of Jos and Amelia talking in the garage, with Jos gesturing animatedly and Amelia, typically blunt, responding with equal intensity.

Ted shifts, looking across the paddock, scanning the crowd of drivers and engineers.

“And let’s not forget that there’s still some tension between Amelia and McLaren, her father’s team. No doubt about it. There’s been a fair amount of speculation about her change in team and what exactly went down, but no one’s talking specifics. We know McLaren won’t love losing someone of her calibre to Red Bull, but Amelia's made it clear that it’s all about the opportunity to work with Adrian, not about the politics. Still, you can feel the strain."

Cut back to Ted, his face becoming more animated as he looks towards something happening across the paddock.

"But here’s the kicker, folks. As I’m talking about this tension, I see something that maybe changes the narrative just a little bit."

The camera follows Ted’s eyes as they zoom in on Amelia and Lando, who are sitting casually on a wall near the McLaren and Red Bull hospitality areas. Lando’s laughing at something, and Amelia, her arms crossed, is smiling; not just her usual polite smile, but a real one.

"Well, well, well... Looks like there may not be as much tension between Amelia and McLaren, or between her and Lando, as we thought, eh? That, my friends, is a sight we didn't expect to see so soon. Seems like the ghosts of the past are being put to bed, at least for now."

He grins, looking almost conspiratorial with the camera.

"And that’s all we’ve got for now, folks. The grid’s about to get busy with pre-race preparations, but keep an eye on Amelia. She’s making her mark, and I think we’ll be seeing a lot more of her, both in the garage and in the paddock. Could be a very exciting future ahead for her in this sport and beyond.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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soleauclub · 22 days ago

Text

Hot Girl Biohacking 101: What I'm Actually Doing for Energy & Focus

by Soleau Club

If you’ve ever tried to “hack” your way into more energy, more focus, and more get-it-done vibes—you’ve probably ended up with a half-drunk matcha, six tabs open, and a mid-day crash that hits like your ex's follow request.

So let’s simplify it. Here’s what I’m really doing to feel mentally sharp, physically lit, and spiritually unbothered. This is Hot Girl Biohacking, Soleau Club-style.

My Morning Stack: Light, Hydration, and Dopamine

Before I touch my phone (okay, maybe one scroll), I:

Step outside and get sunlight on my face. Yes, even if I look like a raccoon in last night’s mascara (if I didnt take it off, because sometimes that's just what happens). 10–15 minutes of natural light = a natural circadian reset, better mood, and less brain fog.

Salt + lemon water instead of coffee. Think: adrenal support, mineral magic, and hydration before stimulation.

90s/2000s dance playlist + red light therapy. I use a red light panel while I stretch, do breathwork, or journal. Bonus: I pair it with dopamine-boosting music to wake my brain up without caffeine.

This stack alone makes me feel like I own a wellness yacht.

Nootropics, but Make It Cute

I’m not popping Adderall—I’m micro-optimizing. Here’s what I actually use:

L-Theanine + Caffeine: Smooth, jitter-free focus. Perfect for when I must be a girlboss with grace.

Lion’s Mane Mushroom: Neurogenesis, memory, mood. I take it in tincture form—gives chic apothecary vibes.

Magnesium L-Threonate (at night): For deep, healing sleep and next-level brain recovery.

Hot girls use herbs. Hot girls read ingredients. Hot girls know what their mitochondria need.

Intermittent Movement, Not Just Intermittent Fasting

I do hot girl walks, but I break them up. Biohackers call it “movement snacks,” I call it body maintenance with outfit changes.

Walk in the morning (sunlight hit + mindset reset)

Stretch mid-day (energy slump preventer)

Dance in my kitchen while cooking dinner (free serotonin)

It’s not about burning calories—it’s about staying lit.

Food That Feeds My Brain, Not Just My Aesthetic

Don’t get it twisted—I’m still eating like a model in the French Riviera. But I focus on:

Protein + fats early in the day (think smoked salmon, eggs, avocado)—so I don’t crash or crave junk

Slow carbs (quinoa, root veggies) around lunch for sustainable energy

Adaptogens in my lattes: ashwagandha, maca, or reishi depending on the vibe

And yes, I do take my collagen. Daily. Religiously.

Tech Hygiene = Mental Clarity

The girls that get it, get it: if your phone looks like a Vegas casino, your brain will too.

I keep my phone on grayscale M-F until 12pm. It’s wild how unsexy scrolling becomes when there’s no color.

Inbox zero energy—but for apps. I do weekly audits and delete anything that makes me feel chaotic.

My Focus Mode is called “Don’t Kill My Vibe.” And no, I’m not joking.

Nervous System Care Is My New Aesthetic

Listen—no biohack works if your nervous system is fried. Here’s what keeps me calm, grounded, and magnetic:

Cold showers (short, strategic, and brutal) for resilience + glow

Breathwork before calls or socializing (my go-to: box breathing 4-4-4-4)

Epsom salt baths with lavender and rose oil for divine feminine vibes

This isn’t self-care. It’s systems optimization. Soft girl era meets high performance.

Sleep Is My Most Expensive Product

I don’t care how pretty your planner is—if your sleep sucks, your brain will sabotage you by noon.

Mouth tape. Yes, we’re sealing our lips to keep that jawline snatched and oxygen flowing.

No blue light after 9PM (unless it’s coming from a candlelight filter or a hot text).

I treat sleep like skincare. Consistent, intentional, and luxurious.

Being “On” All the Time Isn’t the Flex

The real flex? Having energy that’s sustainable. Creativity that flows. Confidence that radiates from within because your body and brain are working with you—not against you.

At Soleau Club, we’re not biohacking to chase hustle culture—we’re doing it to become the most magnetic, centered, and electric versions of ourselves.

We don’t run on fumes. We run on frequency. ✨

Ready to level up your rituals? Follow @soleauclub for more tips, rituals, and behind-the-scenes of what we’re really doing to glow from the inside out.

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crusty-chronicles · 1 month ago

Text

BONUS AIRHEADED S/O HEADCANNONS: Law (One Piece)

You remind him so much of Corazon it hurts.

Yes you get on his nerves. And yes it's a pain to have to replace all the equipment you damaged.

But everytime you come into his office with a bloody nose because you tripped, he can't help but feel a little nostalgic.

You lit the kitchen on fire trying to cook?

You're never allowed in there without supervision. But as he's patting out the flames on your body, he's fighting the urge to smile.

You slipped preparing to fight a marine?

He almost forgets to ‘shamble’ you out of the way watching you flail your arms for balance.

You made him coffee?

He's making you drink it first and hiding his laugh behind his hand as you spit it out.

“Too salty!!!!” You said while clutching your throat at the taste.

Sometimes he just wants to pick your brain to see what's really going on there.

“Can you smell what purple tastes like?” You asked him once.

His response: “You're an idiot.”

He's a lot more gentle with you than he'd like to admit.

Dabbing alcohol on a scrape you got and actually stopping when you wince.

Resetting any bones you dislocated and muttering a ‘sorry’ when you react negatively.

His words are somehow less crass when he's scolding you.

“What happened this time?” He questioned as you stumbled your way to his office.

“I slammed my head through a wall.”

A dark bruise forming in the center of your forehead.

He gives a grumble, but nevertheless, he's putting some ointment over the mark to soothe the sting.

The lecture he'd have prepared for any of the crew gone.

In its place is something teasing.

“Is the wall okay?” There's a smile tugging his lips as he finishes bandaging your head.

“....”

You actively avoid his gaze and it makes him panic.

“Hey! You didn't-!”

“CAPTAIN WE'VE SPRUNG A LEAK!”

He should find it exasperating, really. At this point, treating your small injuries has become a daily occurrence.

Instead, he looks forward to it. It's cathartic.

Applying small bandages, wrapping what was sprained, hell even plucking out the splinters from your fingers.

Despite all the paperwork he has to fill out, he makes time to treat you because he knows you're bound to come to him with something else.

The crew starts making bets on either what you'll destroy next or where you'll get hurt.

(He occasionally joins in and always ends up winning.)

Snfjrkjf Sachi and Penguin making you a #1 Best Patient Award.

He should find your never ending rambling annoying.

But he enjoys how you always manage to fill the silence.

You catch him off guard every time with some of the things you say.

More often than not you're calling him Doctor instead of Captain.

Something he'd get after anyone but you for.

He just can't find it in him to correct you.

Not even Bepo gets away with as much as you.

He'd deny babying you. He knows you're strong.

He's seen you take out fleets.

He's seen you get stabbed and continue trucking on.

If you've got devil fruit powers, he's seen you level towns by accident with it.

But he's so impossibly soft on you that he can't help it.

He can't help always having you in his line of sight

He can't help carrying around a few extra stones just in case you get into trouble

He can't help scanning you with his ability to see if you're hiding something from him.

He realizes he likes you way more than he should've when you get sick

You'd contracted something from an island the Tang had docked on.

And because you're you, you don't know what caused it.

He hates your naivety when it comes to times like these. But he hates seeing your frail state even more.

Never had he seen you so weak.

It scared him.

You're bedridden and it has him worried.

He should be able to cure whatever you had.

But a few weeks go by and your condition doesn't seem to get any better.

He feels like a failure.

And every time he comes to give you a new treatment, you muster up the energy to smile so softly at him.

You could be dying, and still you find some damn reason to be happy, simple minded as you are.

It only spurs him on harder to make a cure.

All he can think of is your stupid smile.

It's all too reminiscent of that night. Of Corazon.

Trying to put the best version of yourself forward before you died.

Wanting to be remembered full of life.

It's all so painfully familiar.

So when he checks on you the next day and you beam up at him, he asks you.

“Why? Why do you smile everytime you see me? I've failed you as your doctor and captain to find a cure. So why?”

He half expects you to say it's because you don't want him to feel bad. But he should know by now to expect the opposite from you.

“Because I know you're gonna take care of me. I know you're gonna figure out what's wrong with me, so I have nothing to worry about. Really it just feels like I get to spend extra time with you.”

Your words have his heart stopping. And that damn smile of yours is somehow ten times bigger.

His face feels like it's burning.

You really trusted him that much? To the point where dying didn't even cross your mind when the thought had haunted his mind for weeks?

But what ultimately does him in is how you don't see his failures as failures. You take his inability to create a cure as an opportunity to talk to him.

What was wrong with you?

What was wrong with him for wanting to pursue you when you got better?

When, not if, because he was gonna make sure he had that damn cure by the end of the week.

You have not a singular thought behind your eyes and it makes him want to bang his head against the wall until he's on your level mentally.

You have his entire heart in the palm of your hand and you don't even know it.

It doesn't help he's so awkward when it comes to romance.

He can't approach you in the normal sense because you won't pick up on it.

Flirting? The Trafalgar Law trying to flirt with a moron who would probably think he was being nice? He'd rather toss himself into the ocean than embarrass himself like that.

Confess his feelings????

And completely stutter over his words because how can he possibly convey the fuzzy feeling in his chest when you're near?

Let the crew try to set you two up when his aloof behavior is finally noticed?

He's shambling his way out of the room the second he figures out what's going on.

He doesn't tell you he loves you. He probably never will.

But he goes out of his way to show it.

He doesn't let you go off by yourself when it's time to explore a new island.

Grasping your hand when no one else is looking and hoping you don't feel the clamminess of it.

If he's the one cooking, it's always your favorite dishes served.

Watching from the corner of his eye to gauge your reaction and mentally cheering when you start scarfing it down.

He lets you into his office when he's working. Anybody else would have been shooed off if it weren't important.

Half listening to your excited rambling about a really cool fish you saw through the sub’s window.

That is until you ask him about what he's writing. And he'll explain everything to you no matter how long it takes for you to understand.

He's okay with you not knowing about his feelings.

Until he forms an Alliance with Strawhat and you get along a little too well with him.

Maybe it does hurt his ego a little when you compliment Luffy's devil fruit. Asking him to sling-shot you across the Sunny.

Maybe it is jealousy churning in his gut seeing how hard you laugh at Luffy's jokes. (Sure Law didn't joke around much, but he made you laugh too didn't he?)

Maybe it infuriates him to see you hanging off of the other captain drunkenly.

But maybe, just maybe he realizes he has nothing to worry about when you turn to him with a smile.

Stumbling over and pulling him into a hug. Cheek nuzzling against his own.

And maybe he doesn't mean it when he tells you to get off of him. Complaining that you're annoying despite the rapid beating of his heart.

---------------------------------------

An: What better way to celebrate this day of fools than with Airhead Headcannons. I really gotta get the Yoko headcannons out there 😞 As you can probably tell, I've been binging one piece. I didn't expect to like Law as much as I did. Perchance look forward to a one shot 👉👈

MASTERLIST

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #x reader #law x reader #trafalgar law #trafalgar d law x reader #airhead s/o #stronk s/o #stupid s/o #law one piece

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chrissssssmut · 1 month ago

Note

yandere liz x male reader where reader gets punished by liz for breaking her rules but gets taken care of afterwards

(btw thank u for ur hard work. the consistency in quantity and quality is crazy)

OBEDIENCE IS DEVOTION (Yandere w/ Smut)

Yandere Liz x Male Reader

AN: Im slowly losing my juice but i am determined to keep writing RAHHHH🫡

Liz never raised her voice. She never needed to. Her rules weren’t barked or shouted—they were whispered into your skin, in the quiet moments when her arms were around you and her lips grazed the shell of your ear. “No phones. No guests. And never open the basement door.” She said it with a kiss to your temple, like a bedtime promise. You didn’t question it. You didn’t want to. Liz made life too easy. She cooked for you. She folded your laundry. She laughed at your jokes like they were the only things that had ever made her smile. The apartment was warm, bright, filled with the scent of eucalyptus and her shampoo. You told yourself that was love. You told yourself the rules were just her way of keeping things simple. But the door—the one at the end of the hallway, behind the laundry room—it blinked. Just a little red light above the keypad, faint but always there, always watching. You’d catch yourself looking at it without even realizing. And she’d always catch you.

“You’re thinking too much again,” she’d say sweetly, brushing your hair back, her nails barely grazing your scalp. “That little brain of yours is so noisy sometimes. I like it better when you’re calm.”

You always nodded. You always agreed. Because Liz’s voice made it so hard to say no. Because she smiled like everything she said made perfect sense, like she wasn’t asking for anything unreasonable. And maybe it wasn’t, not really. Until she left one afternoon, her purse forgotten on the counter, and that red light blinked at you again. You didn’t even realize you were moving until you were in front of the keypad. Her birthday. That was the code. Of course it was. The door clicked open like it had been waiting for you all along.

The air inside was still, unnaturally cold. You stepped down slowly, each wooden stair creaking under your weight. And then—photos. Hundreds. Pinned to corkboards, stuck to walls, framed on shelves. All of you. Sleeping. Eating. Showering. Crying. Pictures you couldn’t remember anyone taking. Notes in her handwriting. A piece of your hair, taped beside a list of your habits. Your old phone. Your letters. Your discarded things. It was a shrine. A museum of you.

“You really couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

Her voice didn’t make you jump. It was too soft, too calm for that. You turned and saw her standing at the top of the stairs, lit from behind like an angel. One hand resting on the rail. Her face unreadable. She began descending slowly, not a single step rushed.

“You always do this,” she murmured. “You push. You test me. And I forgive you every time, don’t I?”

You opened your mouth but no words came out.

“Because I love you.”

She reached the bottom and stopped in front of you, eyes tracing your face with quiet intensity. Then her hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.

“You make it so hard to keep you safe.”

The kiss she gave you was feather-light. So gentle it didn’t feel like punishment at all. “Upstairs,” she whispered against your lips.

You followed her, silent and dazed. She took your hand like nothing had happened, like you were walking home from a date and not returning from the discovery of your own surveillance. In the bedroom, she turned and looked at you.

“Take your shirt off.”

You hesitated.

Her voice didn’t change. “Now.”

You peeled it off. She smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling a ribbon from her hair and sliding it slowly between her fingers.

“Kneel.”

You did. And she leaned forward, wrapping the ribbon tightly around your wrists. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t even tight. But it held. Her hands lingered on you, fingertips brushing your veins.

“There,” she whispered. “That’s better.”

She kissed your chest, your ribs, the hollow of your throat—worshipful, almost reverent. “I’m not angry,” she murmured. “You just scared me. You made me think I wasn’t enough.”

You tried to speak, but she climbed into your lap, hoodie still on, her bare thighs warm around your waist. Her lips hovered just above yours. “Don’t talk. Just listen.”

Her fingers brushed your cock, barely touching. Teasing. Cruel.

“You don’t get to cum,” she whispered, voice syrup-sweet. “Not yet. Not until you understand.”

Her hand wrapped around your aching cock slowly, deliberately, stroking with just enough pressure to keep you trembling. Her lips pressed to your jaw.

“Tell me what you did wrong.”

“I… opened the door.”

“Why?”

“Because I was curious. Because—”

“No. Say it right.”

“Because you told me not to.”

Her mouth curved into a smile. “Because I love you,” she corrected again. “Say it.”

“Because you love me.”

Her strokes grew just a little firmer, just enough to make your legs shake.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, Liz. I’m yours.”

“Good boy.”

She kissed you again, deeper this time, tongue brushing yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. She pulled her shorts aside, and in one smooth motion, she sank down onto you, wet and warm and slow. You gasped, but she covered your mouth with her hand, eyes wide and gentle.

“Shh. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

She rode you like she had all the time in the world, slow and steady, keeping you right on the edge while her nails left faint trails on your chest. She leaned forward and kissed your temple, your lips, your nose. “You feel that?” she breathed. “That’s love. That’s how deep I want to be. Always.”

You couldn’t last. Not like that. When you came, it was raw and shaky and overwhelming, and she moaned as if your surrender meant more than anything. She clung to you, her forehead pressed to yours.

“See?” she whispered. “You don’t need anything else.”

She untied you gently, like she was worried she might hurt your skin. Then she cleaned you off with a warm towel, humming quietly under her breath. You didn’t know what to say. She tucked you under the blanket and curled around you like you might vanish if she didn’t hold you close enough.

In the morning, you woke to sunlight spilling across the bed and the smell of strawberries and toast. A tray waited beside you. Liz was in the kitchen, wearing your shirt, hair still messy, humming a tune you vaguely recognized.

“You were out cold,” she said with a smile. “I made breakfast.”

You stared at her. “Liz… last night…”

She tilted her head. “Hmm?”

“You tied me up.”

“No, baby,” she said sweetly. “You must’ve dreamed that.”

You sat up. Your wrists still bore the faintest marks. She saw you looking and leaned in to kiss them.

“You poor thing. You’ve been so stressed.”

She fed you a strawberry. It tasted like it was laced with guilt and comfort.

“You know I’d never hurt you, right?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

She kissed your cheek and whispered, “Everything I do… is because I love you.”

That night, the keypad on the basement door had changed. She stood next to it, her hand resting casually on the panel.

“No more sneaking around,” she said softly. “You don’t want me to get upset again, do you?”

You shook your head.

She smiled like you’d said something beautiful, something perfect.

And in that moment, you realized—she never gets upset. She doesn’t need to. Because she knows, in the end, you always come back to her.

That night, the house was too quiet.

You lay on the couch, barely blinking, your thoughts looping in tight, suffocating circles. You could still hear her voice echoing in your head—You must’ve dreamed that. You stared at your wrists, where the faint marks remained, pink and fading, like they weren’t supposed to mean anything.

Liz appeared behind you without a sound.

"Bedroom," she said softly.

You looked up at her. She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t angry, either. Her face was unreadable—like she already knew what would happen, and your part was just to follow along.

You obeyed. The hallway was long and dark, but you didn’t need to be guided. You sat on the edge of the bed, your body heavy with dread and something darker that you didn’t want to name.

Liz came in a moment later. She closed the door gently and crossed the room with slow, measured steps. She didn’t say anything at first—just stood in front of you and tilted your chin up with two fingers. Her nails were painted a pale, sheer pink.

“Take off your clothes.”

You hesitated.

“Now.”

You peeled your shirt over your head and kicked off your pants, trembling slightly as her eyes trailed over your exposed skin. Her expression didn’t change, but her breathing slowed as she looked at you—like you were something rare and fragile, something hers.

She sat down beside you, her thigh brushing yours, the bed dipping just slightly under her weight. Her lips hovered near your ear, and you could feel the warmth of her breath before you even heard her voice.

“Say the rules.”

Your throat tightened. You knew what she wanted.

“No phones,” you whispered.

Her hand slid onto your thigh, warm and soft.

“No guests.”

Her fingers moved slowly inward.

“And…”

You swallowed. “Never open the basement door.”

“Good,” she murmured. “Now tell me what you did.”

You closed your eyes. “I opened the door.”

She made a soft sound—almost a coo—and her hand reached your cock, fingers curling around it, lazy and light, like she had all the time in the world. She stroked you once, slow and deliberate.

“You broke my trust,” she whispered, her lips brushing the edge of your ear. “You disobeyed me.”

You nodded helplessly.

“Keep going.”

“I… I looked through your things.”

Her hand moved again, just enough to keep you on edge. She kissed your temple, her mouth open slightly, her breath warm and steady.

“And what did you see?”

“Pictures. Of me.”

“And did you like it?” Her voice was impossibly gentle.

You didn’t answer.

Her hand stilled. Her other hand touched your jaw, guiding your face to hers until you had no choice but to meet her eyes. There was no anger. Just calm, endless patience.

“Tell the truth,” she whispered. “Did it turn you on?”

You felt your face heat up. You wanted to lie. You didn’t.

“A little.”

Her smile returned—small, indulgent. Her grip tightened just slightly.

“That’s okay,” she said sweetly. “It’s normal to be excited when someone loves you this much. When someone would do anything to keep you.”

She leaned in, her nose brushing your cheek, her hand moving again—slower this time, more deliberate.

“You’re mine,” she whispered. “Even your shame. Even your fear. It all belongs to me.”

You moaned softly, your body tensing under her slow, rhythmic strokes. Her other hand slid across your chest, fingers splayed over your heart.

“You can cum,” she breathed into your ear, “but only when I say.”

Her hand didn’t stop. It was maddening. You were so close, held there by her voice and her scent and her soft, dangerous touch.

“Say it again,” she whispered.

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, Liz.”

Her mouth found your neck, teeth grazing your skin—not biting, not yet—just enough to make you freeze.

“Good boy,” she purred.

And you came undone in her hand.

She held you through it, kissed your ear, cleaned you off with quiet precision. Not a word of cruelty. No scolding. Just the same eerie affection she always had, like you were her most precious thing in the world.

As she tucked you into bed, brushing the hair from your eyes, she kissed your lips gently and whispered, “You did so well tonight. I’m proud of you.”

You stared at the ceiling long after she curled into you, her arms wrapped tightly around your waist, her breath soft against your back.

Somewhere in your chest, your heart ached—and not because she hurt you. But because some part of you had started to believe she really was the only one who would love you this completely.

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rivalsispunk · 3 months ago

Text

Inappropriate (Chapter 4 of ongoing series When We’re Alone)

Best friend’s dad!Declan O’Hara, boss!Declan O’Hara x AFAB reader

Series summary: Journalist Declan O’Hara is in need of a personal assistant as his Corinium career skyrockets, and his daughter Taggie has the perfect candidate: her best friend. What seemingly starts as a professional relationship soon snowballs into something both Declan and reader were never expecting and are no longer able to deny.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, cursing, age gap romance (reader is a few years older than Taggie), mention of male appendages (IYKYK), mention of female orgasm, pussy pronouns, smut smut SMUTTTT, jealous Declan, all the good stuff

Word count: 11.4k

Chapter summary: Happening across your boss pants down only spells the beginning for you and Declan, but neither of you are expecting a surprise visitor to muddy the waters.

A/N: Thank you all for being SO SO patient with this one. I could've easily released this chapter in two parts but didn't want to disrupt the flow of the story (*ahem* smut). This has had a brief edit in my hastiness to publish so any mistakes... Shhhhhh!

Chapter Four: Inappropriate

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t had an inappropriate thought or two about Declan O’Hara in the time you’ve been friends with Taggie, perhaps more frequently since he’d become your superior, but that had nothing on the unadulterated filth that had infiltrated your brain in the hours since leaving The Priory. You can barely recall fleeing down its staircase or the drive home, what unfolded at the forefront of your mind until a self-induced orgasme lulled you into a deep sleep. Now, you’re permanently marred with the visual of Declan — your best friend’s father, your boss — fucking his hand with your name on his lips. You should feel dirty. You should feel violated. You should feel the way you do when Tony Baddingham’s beady eyes drink you in across the office. Like you need a scalding hot shower and to scrub yourself down to the bone. But you don’t. You feel like somebody’s doused you in gasoline and lit a match, your whole body burnt to flames — and it’s exhilarating.

How many times has he done it?

Was that the first time?

And why do you want to watch him do it again?

“Did ya stay late last night?” Declan asks you the next day while you’re sifting through old newspapers in search for more dirt on Rupert, at your boss’ request. “Went straight up to bed once I got back, so didn’t hear ya leave.”

Liar, you think.

“Not too late. Eleven, maybe,” you respond, eyes glued haphazard clippings across your desk.

“Not that I would’ve heard you anyway,” he continues. “Not with the wailing guitar riffs at full volume on Taggie’s stereo.”

Only then do you flit your gaze up to look at the man on the other side of the office. Acting professional after that murky moment with Declan in the hot tub was one thing, but pretending you don’t know what your boss looks like with his pants dropped and cock in hand is a whole other kettle of fish. Under normal circumstances, you’d be awkward. Uncomfortable. But now it’s as if having his secret affection has allowed you the permission to challenge him.

“Do you have something against Bon Jovi, Declan?”

“Under normal circumstances, no,” he responds, lighting a cigarette. “But when it feels like Jon is in bed with me screaming in my ear while I’m trying to sleep, I’m inclined to think otherwise.”

Let alone when you’re dancing around all but naked to it.

“So, can we count you out of belting Livin’ On A Prayer at Bar Sinister tonight?” you chide, reminding Declan of the invite you’d all received from the Joneses. Smoke plumes from his lips as he rears back from a drag.

“Yep. I’ll not be going anyway. Got too much work to get done.” “You always have too much work to get done,” you tell him. “You have to take a break sometime.”

“That’s what sleeping is for,” he counters, a slight smirk rising from under his moustache.

“Oh, come on, Declan. It’s one night.” You’re staring at him all doe-eyed across the room and your innocence, faux or not, does the heavy lifting of your convincing. “Come to Sinister. It’ll be fun.”

It’ll be fun, you’d said, voice all but a whiney beg that zapped like a rod of lightning straight to his crotch. But Declan’s struggling to find the enjoyment in spending his evening watching a revolving door of men try their luck with you, in that impossibly short merlot-coloured dress that’s befitting of Bar Sinister’s name. First, it was Bas Baddingham; the younger, kinder, though no less leery half-brother of Tony. Declan had noticed the pair of you when he arrived, his attention magnetised to you the moment he walked through the door. Bas had you cooped up in the corner by the floor to ceiling wine racks, his frame bowing over you while you chatted.

Declan wasn’t prepared for the twist in his stomach, nor the prickle of heat that scaled his body until it reached his cheeks while he watched you giggle with Bas, eyes sparkling under his attention. It was almost as if he were a child watching someone play with his favourite toy, unwilling to let anybody else have a turn, even though he was well aware it wasn’t his to keep in the first place. You slung another one of your dazzling smiles Bas’ way, and it was enough to have Declan beelining for the bar to order a wine and a whiskey to keep his envy at bay. After a while, Bas was called away to assist with a kitchen catastrophe. He was quickly replaced with Rupert Campbell-Black, all smiles and slime as craned his neck to whisper in your ear. Whatever words he was imparting on you — undoubtedly dirty — saw you blush, a stunning flush of fuchsia flooding up your neck to your cheeks. This goes on for a while — too long, in Declan’s opinion — and every grin Rupert shoots your way, coupled with you staring up at him all starry-eyed like you’ve been touched by the hand of God, has Declan grinding his teeth to near-dust.

He’s too old for you, he thinks. Certainly not good enough. The journalist had already been forced to warn the former Olympian off Taggie. He ought to do the same for you. But who was he kidding? He has no claim over you. You’re not his daughter.

The idea has him downing his whiskey in one gulp.

No, you’re definitely not his daughter.

Filthy hypocritical git.

You felt Declan before you saw him, his gaze like daggers slicing into you as you spoke with Bas, then even more so when while you chatted to Rupert. In all honesty, you had no interest in either men, but you made sure to ramp up the flirty act, particularly with Rupert, because you knew how much Declan disliked him. You weren’t entirely sure why; perhaps you wanted to see whether it bothered him, or how much it bothered him, but you could never get a good enough look at him to gauge where his head was at. You weren’t even talking about yourself, save for Rupert once again trying to coax you into a dinner date. Instead, you’d geared the conversation towards your best friend, whom you knew had a burgeoning crush on her neighbour despite her failed attempts to deny it.

“Are you expecting someone?” Rupert asks partway through gushing over Taggie’s catering at a recent hunt. “Or am I just boring you?”

His question falls on deaf ears, and you scramble to make up for your rudeness. “Sorry, Rupert. What was that?”

“Your eyes have been darting around this bar like you’re watching a tennis match.”

“I’m not—”

“Trust me, you are. It’s not often that a woman can bear to take her eyes off of me,” Rupert peacocks, cheeky grin blooming at his shameless confession. “So, who’s the lucky sod?”

God, he’s nothing if not perceptive, you think, chewing the inside of your cheek. Finally, you clock Declan by the till, his eyes stuck on you while Lizzie Vereker chats animatedly at his side.

“So, are you going to tell me or are you going to make me guess?” Rupert tries again.

Turning your attention back to him, you make a show of laying a hand on the sleeve of his navy sports coat as you lie through your teeth. “It’s nobody. Nobody worth worrying about.”

“Are you trying to burn a hole through him?” Lizzie wonders aloud, cheeks already flushed from her half a glass of wine.

“He’s just… everywhere. It bothers me,” Declan tells her, not taking his eyes off you.

“Bothers you that he’s here, or bothers you that he’s here with her?” She looks at him quizzically before her sight slices to you.

“You know I can’t stand him, Lizzie. Sorry, I know he’s your friend but, God. Always lurking, trying to shag anything with a pulse. Even that might be too restrictive to the lengths he’ll go to.”

“She’s an adult, Declan. A strong-headed one, at that. She can make her own decisions.”

“Well, she’s making the wrong one with him. He's got all the charm of a burst hemorrhoid."

Lizzie swats Declan for his off-colour description. “And what do you suggest the right one to be, then?” She’s staring up at him, lips pursed like she knows something. Like she’s pried his skull open with a crowbar and all of his dirtiest thoughts about you have leaked all over Bar Sinister’s maroon carpet.

“Someone her own age,” Declan decides, as much as it pains him to admit. “Someone that’s not Rupert Campbell-Black.”

“Someone like Patrick?” Lizzie poses, and Declan’s head whips towards her at the mention of his son.

“Patrick? My Patrick?”

“It’s not that crazy an idea. He’s a perfectly lovely boy.”

“He’s also at university, Lizzie.” Far away from you.

“Was at university,” a familiar and all-too-missed voice sounds from behind the journalist, and he just about spills his Pinot Noir as he turns to greet his son.

“Patrick!” Declan pulls him into a hug, clapping a hand against his back. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I had a few days between exams. Thought I’d pay a visit.”

“Shouldn’t you be studying?”

“Come on, Dad. I’m here to have fun. You should try it sometime,” Patrick jests. There’s that word again. Fun. Despite your earlier promise, so far, Declan’s having anything but. “Hello, Lizzie,” Patrick leans down to drop a kiss to her cheek. “So, what are we talking about over here? Though with you Rutshire lot, I suppose the question should be who are we talking about?” he asks, taking the wine glass from his father’s hand and polishing off what’s left of the heady liquid.

Lizzie steals a quick look at Declan, who feigns disinterest. “We were just talking about that glorious young lady over there,” she tells Patrick, pointing with her wine in your direction. “Rather beautiful, is she not?”

Patrick’s eyes narrow as he spots you across the dim-lit room, still deep in conversation with Rupert. “Isn’t that Taggie’s friend? I remember meeting her at my birthday party. Rupert hasn’t eaten her alive yet?”

“Seems she’s one of the only women in this town that’s immune to his charms,” Lizzie conveys, and Declan wonders if they’re watching the same scene; Rupert laying it on thick and you seemingly lapping it up.

There’s a soft, almost curious tilt to Patrick’s head, lip pursed over as he watches the pair of you. “She might stand a chance after all,” he announces, then he’s away as quickly as he appeared, swerving through the crowd as he makes his way towards you.

Freddie is eight minutes through Meat Loaf’s Bat Out Of Hell and the whole bar is loving it. You can’t recall a time you’ve had this much fun out, your throat is stinging from how loud, how ferociously, you’re singing along with the electronics businessman. Freddie’s off-key and lack of rhythm is long forgotten under the haze of alcohol, and even Declan has slid off his broody perch to join the sing-a-long. Before the unmistakable first riff of the song blasted from the speakers, you’d spent the last half an hour chatting to Patrick, who’d surprised his family for a weekend home from university. You’d met him once before at the O’Hara’s most recent New Year’s Eve party. It’d also doubled as his twenty-first birthday, though you’d barely exchanged more than a hello and goodbye on the night and he was yet to venture back until this evening.

The only son of Declan and Maud, and it isn’t hard to see where the majority of his genes descend from. Hickory curls wisp every which way, nougat eyes flecked with black just like his father’s. While Patrick is far more idealistic than Declan, he’s just as foolhardy and exudes the same charm. He’s funny, too, much easier to joke with than his dad, you find, and though he can’t hear what his son is whispering to you over the roar of the crowd, the way you lean into him and laugh between lyrics grates on Declan. He silently curses Lizzie for setting Patrick’s sights on you. He knows — yes, knows — she was doing him a favour, in some roundabout way, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Especially when he has an unwilling front row seat with you standing between him and Patrick. To compete with Rupert and Bas was one thing, but his own son? Even if the whole thing was complete mental game, it wears on him, reminding him how fucking absurd his affection for you is.

The bar erupts in applause as Freddie wails along with the song’s final chord, his voice landing nowhere near the note Meat Loaf intended. Beside Declan, you cheer for the businessman while Patrick hollers in a way that’s more suited for a football match

“Right then, you randy bunch,” Freddie shouts, his cockney accent impossibly louder under the boom of the microphone. “Which one of yous dares to follow after the King of Karaoke?” The machine, some high-tech gadget flown in from Asia, fades into the next song, and the first couple of lyrics from Don’t Go Breaking My Heart appear on the screen.

“Oh, Daddy loves this song!” Taggie squeals from behind you, hands coming to shake Declan’s shoulders.

“What? No, I don’t,” he scoffs. “Where on earth did you get that idea?” “I’ve heard you singing it in the shower,” she says, shouldering her way between the two of you. “Both Elton and Kiki Dee’s parts.”

Declan playfully swats his daughter. “Oh, shut it, Tag. Can we have no secrets?” Their repartee makes you smile, even more to see Declan without that far-etched scowl he’s often sporting.

“Kiki Dee fan, hey, Dad?” Patrick teases, waggling his eyebrows.

“Not enough to get up there and sing it.”

Nobody else has jumped at the opportunity yet, and Freddie’s still trying to hype up the crowd to find a taker as the instrumental track rolls into the chorus.

“You’ll sing it with him, won’t you?” It takes you a second to realise that Taggie is talking to you. “You were saying on the way here that you wanted to step out of your comfort zone a bit more.”

You shake your head. That’s absolutely not what you were referring to.

“I meant professionally! Not…” you gesture haphazardly to the stage. You hadn’t mentally prepared to get up and perform. It also wasn’t exactly the activity you had in mind when you thought about you and Declan.

“Oh, go on, you two!” Taggie eggs you on, hopping with excitement.

“I’ll give you ten quid,” Patrick wagers, and Declan slices a dark look his way.

“Anyone?” Freddie is still trying, swinging the microphone around by its cable. Then, you feel a hot breath sluice over your cheek. The scent of whiskey emanating from Declan gives away the dangerous amount he’s consumed this evening, which could be why he drops his mouth to your ear.

“I’ll do it if you do it,” he murmurs, the deep timbre of his words racking through you. You rear backwards, nearly headbutting Taggie in the process.

“Are you joking? Two seconds ago you didn’t want to get up there either!”

Declan gives a half-hearted shrug as if to say why not. “It is a duet, after all.” His gaze holds yours and walks a fine line between pleading and defiant. There’s something in it now, a dare lurking beneath the surface, like he’s waiting for you to rise to the challenge. The look hits you sharp, suddenly; a flash of lightning tearing through the dark, and one final daring tilt of Declan’s head pushes your reservations aside.

“Okay, fine.” You snatch his glass from his hand and throw back the rest of the thick amber. A swell of pride burns through his chest, watching you pitch up the courage — even if it’s liquid — to get up on stage. “Freddie!” you shout towards the host. “Start it up again. We’re doing this.”

“Woohoo!” Freddie pumps a fist in the air, winding up the crowd until their cheering and applause hit deafening heights. Between the whiskey and the support of Taggie and Rutshire, you should be amped up enough to get through one measly song. But not even the heat blooming from where Declan’s hand rests on your back as he guides you on stage is enough to distract from the terror gnawing at you.

Despite the small set-up and there only being forty-odd people in the crowd, you might as well have been performing at Wembley. The relentless stage lights make it seem like you’re just metres from the sun and your heart is pumping a frantic, runaway rhythm that just won’t quiet. You blanch, surprised the microphone doesn’t slip from your clammy palm as Freddie passes it to you, the object a heavy weight in your hand. Just below you, Taggie pumps a thumbs up, and Patrick claps supportively. And then there’s Declan, standing beside you, his presence both grounding and electrifying as he leans in, voice low but steady as the intro to Don’t Go Breaking Your Heart starts back up again.

“Just breathe, love,” he tells you. “The worst that happens is we both end up looking like idiots.”

The first four bars pump out of the speakers, and you barely hear Declan apprehensively sing the first line because you’re too focussed on not regurgitating the cacio e pepe you’d consumed at dinner. You’re already a beat off when you murmur through your round of the lyrics, but Declan does a fine job at making up for your lack of stage presence. He’s side-stepping to the beat, putting his hips into it and clicking with his free hand. He’s still rigid in his movements, because he’ll be damned if performing for his peers this way is a regular occurrence, but it’s all he can do to get the attention off you, to calm your nerves without pulling you into a storage cupboard and fucking the anxiety out of you.

By the time the second chorus rolls around, you’ve loosened up enough to follow Declan’s lead, your feet no longer paralysed by fear. You move about the stage, pointing dramatically at Taggie and wiggling your body. The gesture is small, but swinging your hips in a circle has Declan stumbling over his words, his trousers tightening over his crotch.

Ooh-ooh, nobody knows it (nobody knows), the entire bar is singing along now, and Declan’s welcome for the distraction because the song is right. Nobody knows just how far gone he is for you, and this little love song performance isn’t helping anyone. Thankfully, the music begins fading out, signally the end of your time up on stage, and you clamber down the two rickety steps to resounding applause.

“See?” Taggie says when you return to your rightful place out of the spotlight. “It wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You ignore your heart leaping at the base of your throat and ignore the urge to steal a glance at Declan, who’s made straight for the bar. Again.

“No, not all bad,” you give in, smiling between your friend and her brother.

You stay for one more drink and a few more songs, finally calling it a night once Charles coaxes half the broadcasting staffers into a Les Misérables sing-a-long. You and the O’Hara’s venture outside, the crisp night air pulling all of the hairs on your arms to their ends. While the four of you wait for a cab, Patrick sloughs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, an almost silent that’s better slipping into the darkness. Lighting a cigarette, Declan tries — tries — to mind his own business. But his ears prick up at the mention of you and dinner.

“What do you say?” Patrick is asking you, voice competing with the sound of tires on wet bitumen and the chorus resounding from inside Sinister. “Tomorrow night? I’ll pick you up?”

The words hang in the air. Simple. Loaded.

You feel Declan’s gaze like a weight on your shoulders. You should want to go on a date with Patrick, right? You’re supposed to; he’s smart, funny and, more to the point, not nearly two decades your senior. But all you can think about is how Declan’s attention makes your skin flush, how he’s standing right there, probably watching this all unfold. You swallow, pressure mounting as Patrick’s invitation still hangs between you. A few steps away, Declan shifts, just barely, but enough to catch your attention. When you glance back at him, he busies himself with his lighter, like its manufacture is the most fascinating thing in the world.

Would he even notice if you said yes to his son? Would he care at all?

You nod before you can second-guess yourself, your words tripping out like they’re not even yours. “Yeah, sure. Dinner sounds good.” Patrick beams brightly as a taxi pulls up to the curb. Declan’s unreadable as he stubs out his cigarette, while the energy pouring from Taggie is hard to miss.

“I’m so excited!” she whisper-shouts, her hands coming to wrap around your left arm as you approach the cab. “If this works out between you and Patrick, we’ll be sisters!”

Behind you, Declan pales at his daughter’s comment.

You and Patrick. Working out.

You and Taggie. Sisters.

The idea makes him sick.

“Is that thing broken?” Declan stabs a finger at the clock hanging in The Priory’s kitchen. He’s positive something is wrong with it. Every time he looks to the wall, the hands appear unmoving, perpetually stuck at eleven-fifteen.

“It’s working perfectly fine,” Taggie assures her father while kneading a mound of dough that would soon become dinner rolls for tomorrow’s black-tie event at the Baddinghams’. “I think the issue is you keep checking it every five seconds.” Declan shakes his head, boots scraping along the floor as he paces up and down the length of the room. “Daddy, can you stop for a moment? You’re making me motion sick.” “Patrick should’ve been home by now,” he says, ignoring his daughter while his eyes flick to the clock again.

“He’s on a date, for goodness sake,” Taggie says, and the reminder of his whereabouts — your whereabouts — feels like an infected scrape across his heart. “Just leave him be. He’ll be home when he’s home.”

Declan barks out a laugh. “Leave him be! Thanks, Taggie. That’s just grand parenting advice. I’ll try that one with you when you’ve got kids galavanting around God knows where at all hours of the night.”

“I’d hardly call eleven all hours of the night,” she counters, and the comment stops Declan at the head of the kitchen bench. She keeps stretching and folding the dough, almost unphased by her father’s agitation. Declan smiles, just for a second, recognising that Taggie’s become far more outspoken, less inward, since having you around. He’d be proud if the situation wasn’t so infuriating.

“I’m just—” he stares at a crack in the timber benchtop. “It’s just getting late and he has to drive back to school tomorrow.” It was a cheap excuse. Declan knew full well that Patrick would have no issues making the two-hour drive back to campus, even on little sleep. In truth, he could roll in at four AM and he’d not bat an eyelid.

But this isn’t really about Patrick, is it? No, it’s you. You, out there with his son, doing God knows what, God knows where. He could feel the weight of it— the resentment, the jealousy — settling deep in his chest. What if you’d kissed? Worse, what if you’d—No. His fingers tighten around the edge of the bench, knuckles coming up white. His mind deceives him again, and there you are, entwined in your bed sheets with Patrick, your laughter mixing with the sound of something more. The thought burns hot and quick through him, and the longer you’re out with Patrick, the harder it is to shake.

Then there’s the slam of a car door. The whine of hinges at the entrance to The Priory. Declan and Taggie both glance at each other before racing to the foyer to greet Patrick.

“Are you guys waiting up for me or something?” he chides, unravelling himself from his navy scarf.

“No,” Declan is all too quick to answer. Yes.

“So?” Taggie, flour marring her right cheek, is just about levitating with the way she’s bouncing on her feet. “How was it then?”

“Lovely,” Patrick says. “She’s really great. So intelligent.”

Yeah, I know, Declan dares to think.

“Did you kiss her goodnight?” Taggie wants to know, gazing up at her brother like a toddler waiting on a fairytale.

A quiet chuckle rumbles from Patrick as he slings his coat over the staircase bannister. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, my dear,” he muses, thumbing his sister’s chin.

“You know I’m going to find out from her anyway,” Taggie warns him.

“Then you’ll just have to wait until you see her tomorrow, won’t you?”

She rolls her eyes, and Declan’s stomach churns in a similar motion. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but Patrick wasn’t usually one to play coy. The only reason for his self-effacement must be because he really likes you. And, as Declan trudges up to bed, throwing a tetchy goodnight over his shoulder to his children, he worries you likely feel the same.

The date was…fine. Patrick was twenty minutes late, but it was quickly made up for with the bouquet of roses, twice the size of his head, that he arrived alongside. After a quick peck to the cheek, he ushered you into the Clubman he’d borrowed from his father for the night. The car reeked of stale smoke and the leathery wood smell of Declan’s cologne. If you allowed yourself, you could almost hear the rasp of his voice and the sharp click of his lighter. Beside you, Patrick chatted away about his literature class at university while he navigated the quiet streets, completely unaware of how his father’s presence seemed to haunt every inch of this car. You bypassed Bar Sinister and town completely, ending up at Le Petit Chêne — The Little Oak — a small, family-owned French bistro fifteen minutes down the road. The food was delicious, the wine even better, but as the night wore on, you couldn’t help but compare Patrick to his father, even though you were well aware it wasn’t fair. Patrick had that same tapered jawline, those dark eyes, but where Declan’s gaze felt like a bolt of electricity, Patrick’s was softer, warmer. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes were like something familiar, comfortable, like you could just keep moving through the motions and never have to think too hard. But Declan... Declan made you feel every. Single. Glance.

Still, the comfortability and Patrick’s friendliness made it easy to lose track of time as you traded tales from your time at university and compared your favourite novels, arguing over the crux of Of Mice and Men — you find it majorly depressing, while Patrick thinks it signifies hope. You agreed, begrudgingly, to disagree, the squabble wrapping up as your date pulls up outside your flat.

“I had a really nice night,” he confessed when you reached your door.

“Yeah, me, too,” you responded, shrugging off his jacket he’d once again loaned you. “That restaurant was lovely. Thank you again for paying.” “You’re worth it.” Patrick shuffled from one foot to the other, the subtle movement signifying the first time you’d ever seen the eldest O’Hara child anywhere close to nervous. You knew what was coming next, with the way he looked up from your doormat with hopeful eyes, blush pinching at the apples of his cheeks. “Can I kiss you?”

You should want to kiss him, the young, likable man standing in front of you. Going against your better judgement, you said yes and tried to enjoy his soft lips against yours. His touch was gentle, one hand on your waist, the other cupping your cheek, but the spark that should ignite at having a handsome man like Patrick wanting you was missing. It didn’t help that you could still feel the ghost of Declan’s presence, like the heat from his stare was still burning into your skin. No hairs stood on end. No rush of warmth flooded your chest. Nothing like the way you felt when Declan’s gaze lingered on you just a little too long, or when your hands brushed, the way they had that night in the hot tub. The gnawing comparisons followed you into your flat once you and Patrick had said goodnight, and tucked themselves into bed beside you, marking the beginning of a long night of fractured sleep.

The next evening, you find yourself in a sea of black tuxedos and satin gowns, the clink of glasses and low murmurs of conversation filling the ballroom in the Baddingham manor as you celebrate Four Men Went To Mow dominating the winter ratings. Early that morning, Taggie called to hear details from your date with Patrick, revealing that her brother remained mum about the night you’d spent together. You kept it top-line, telling her it was fun and that there was a peck, which was met with squeals from the other end of the phone. Taggie then dished that Patrick had extended his stay in Rutshire and would be attending that night’s festivities, and whatever excitement you held for the party dissipated.

After your date, you’d expected Patrick to return to university, taking whatever fleeting attraction he held for you with him. You found comfort in that, knowing you wouldn’t have to let him down easy and that Taggie would stop prematurely planning your wedding to her brother. Yet, here he is, looking dashing in a three-piece tux and already the life of the party. So, you push any awkwardness aside and focus on the night ahead. Patrick told you he was definitely leaving tomorrow morning—no harm in enjoying his company tonight, right? You can smile, have a bit of fun, try not to think too much about it. The music plays, the conversation flows, and you laugh, genuinely, pretending for a moment that everything is simple. But through it all, you can feel Declan observing the pair of you across the grand hall. No matter the conversations he finds himself amongst, whether it be with board members about his show, or colleagues exchanging gossip about interoffice affairs, a portion of his attention is always attuned to you. He winces every time your laugh rises above the chatter and he’s desperate to know what words his son is crooning to justify such a heavenly sound. There was something in the way you looked at his son — a softness that went beyond polite attention. But who was he kidding? Why wouldn’t you be interested in Patrick? Lizzie was right. Patrick is the right choice, and judging by the smile pinching at your cheeks as you look up at him, a choice you’ve gladly already made.

After two rounds of canapes have made the rounds, Taggie manages to steal a few minutes away from the kitchen to join you and Daysee on the dancefloor for the YMCA, the three of you giggling between the iconic moves as you try to decide which of the Corinium men would be each of the Village People. Despite the low temperature outside, sweat slides down your spine and the hairs framing your face stick to your forehead. “I’m going to get some air!” you shout, gesturing to the doors in case your friends can’t hear you above the music. As the song fades into a Hall and Oates hit, you push through the throng of guests, ignoring the way Tony Baddingham’s eyes rinse over you in your baby blue dress as you pass by him and Freddie Jones in the corridor. When you step outside, the pulse of music and chatter drifts into the cool night, mingling with the quiet conversations and laughter of guests convening among the manicured hedges and flower beds. The air is thick with the scent of damp grass and the faintest trace of woodsmoke pumping from the manor’s chimneys and many roaring fireplaces.

Down the far end of the house, you spot Declan in the shadow of one of the sky-reaching pillars. He’s still, watching the party through the large windows, light from inside flickering softly across his face. It catches the curve of his cheek and the edge of his stubbly jaw in bursts, and battles with the glow of the cigarette he lifts to his lips. Smoke curls up into the night, and only when it shifts does he finally catch sight of you. He doesn’t say a word, just lets the silence stretch between you for a few moments until you ask him, “Are you hiding?”

“Just getting some fresh air,” he says, taking another drag.

“With lungs full of smoke?” you dare.

The cigarette tips towards the sky as Declan smirks. “Watch yourself.” You take the cheeky lilt in his voice as an invitation to join him, your heels echoing off the concrete pavers as you walk. “Are you having fun?” he wants to know when you fall into line beside him.

“Yeah, it’s a great party. I just hope Freddie hasn’t brought that bloody karaoke machine with him,” you say, only half serious.

“I’ll say,” Declan agrees, dark eyes still fixated on the window. Beyond it, Patrick is talking animatedly with a group of six or so guests gathered around him, all of them ogling the young scholar over their drinks like they’re the disciples to his Jesus. As if he’s just relayed the punchline to a joke, his onlookers throw their heads back with laughter, and the man to Patrick’s left claps him on the shoulder, unable to contain himself.

“People are just drawn to him, aren’t they?” Declan wonders out loud. He doesn’t mean it as a test, but he’s curious to see if you open up to him about the night before.

“It’s not hard to see why,” comes your answer, and it’s clear you’re keeping your cards as close to your chest as Patrick.

“He’s a good boy,” Declan forges on, nudging his chin in the direction of his firstborn.

“You told me that boys don’t know what they want.”

“Not my son. He’s known what he wants since he was in the womb."

“And what about you? Do you know what you want?” The question is playful and doesn’t probe in the way you wish you could ask, but it’s enough for Declan to debate answering.

What does he want?

You.

To not want you.

“He likes you a lot, you know," he pivots, as much as the facts pain him.

“Oh, yeah?”

Declan nods. “He was out here not long ago, banging on about your celestial light.” The phrase makes him chuckle while he shakes his cigarette, ash flickering from orange to grey as it drifts to the ground.

“Celestial light?" you scoff, breath turning to fog in the air. "You’re joking. I have about as much celestial light as a flickering lamp post.”

“Don’t do that.” Any amusement in Declan’s voice is gone with those three words.

“Do what?”

“Put yourself down. Make yourself small.”

“I don’t know what you’re—“

“Don’t you?" Declan presses, head quirked. You don't fool me, is what he means. "You don't have to do that with Patrick. Don't have to do that with me."

"And the rest of them? I'm not naive enough to think that I'm more than some young thing expected to keep quiet and look pretty. That's just the way it is. All those men in there," you nod towards the sprawling windows that separate you from the party. "They don't think anything of me. They just see me as —"

“Smart? Witty?” Declan interjects, trying to meet your eye as you toe a stray leaf that's blown onto the concrete. “Beautiful as you may be, you have a hell of a lot more going for you. Believe me.” He’s being earnest, you can hear it in the way his voice dips to barely a whisper. In this way, his words are intentional and just for you.

You abandon the leaf in favour of his face. “You think I’m beautiful?”

“Be crazy not to."

"Declan..." You don't know where your sentence is going, or why you step towards him, but you do, the confession — as minor as it is — digging into you like a hook and Declan's eyes, pinned to you, reeling you in.

"So, how was your date then?" The question throws up a wall between you. An unscalable, Patrick-shaped wall. A red flush spreads over your chest and blooms up your neck. You don't want to talk about this. Not really. Not with him.

"Patrick didn't tell you?"

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell, is what he said." There's a strangled edge to his voice, a frustration, like his son being cryptic was the most inconvenient thing in the world. "Did you —"

"There you are, Declan!" The voice has you skittering you across the pavement away from Declan, your heart tugging like you're still attached to him by that imaginary hook.

"For fuck’s sake," he mutters, snuffing his cigarette out under his dress shoe as Tony Baddingham saunters towards you, sly smile poisoning his lips.

"And here you are," he croons your name. "Never far from Declan, are you?"

"I told ya, Tony. She's my right hand man," your boss says, and you snuff the smile threatening to crack across your face at the thought that Declan’s talking about you, needing you. He’s trying to sound aloof, but he hates watching Tony sniff you out like a wolf stalking its prey — circling, picking up every subtle scent of your discomfort, eyes glowing with that predatory gleam.

"So, it would seem. I must admit, your show has taken quite a spectacular turn in the ratings since this one's come along," Tony continues, coming to stand beside you. His cool hand slides too comfortably around your bare shoulders, his fingers pressing into your skin with an air of ownership. You flinch and try to mask it with a forced smile, but Tony doesn't seem fazed, chuckling as he leans in closer, eyes trailing down the front of your chest. "This dress is something rather spectacular itself. How did you know blue is my favourite colour?"

"Lucky guess," you tell him, stiffening under the weight of his arm. Declan's jaw tightens, and while he's trying to stay composed, tension radiates from him in violent, crashing waves. Your eyes dart about as you shift uncomfortably — something that doesn't go unnoticed by Declan.

He digs into his pocket, retrieving a small, stainless steel case that he holds out to Tony. "Cigarette?"

"Ah, I told the lady of the house that I would try to quit," Tony explains, referring to his wife, Monica. "But I suppose one never killed anybody." It feels like a tonne has been sloughed off you when Lord Baddingam unravels himself from you, moving towards Declan to light up.

"Thank you," you mouth behind Tony's back, and Declan returns a wink that goes straight to your warm centre.

Inside the house, the party erupts in hoots and cheers as La Bamba starts over the speakers, and you catch sight of Daysee beckoning you back to the dancefloor from the other side of the glass. Tony begins rattling off competitor numbers and other industry secrets well above your pay grade, so you take the opportunity to slip back inside for another champagne, another dance.

Before too long, you’re swept into a conversation with Valerie and Lizzie — well, more Valerie, who is probing you for gossip from within the walls of Corinium. She’s a total fiend for a scandal. You’d heard through the grapevine that she’d told Monica Baddingham about her husband’s sordid rendezvous with Cameron Cook, and no doubt Valerie was well across the fact that Lizzie’s own husband was spending a great deal of time pants down in his dressing room with his co-host.

“Well, there’s got to be something,” Valerie whines when you tell her you tend to keep your nose out of other people’s business.

“Oh, leave her be,” Lizzie tells her before turning to you. “How are you, love? More to the point, how’s Patrick? I heard the two of you went on a date last night.”

Jeez, word travels fast around here, you think.

“You and Declan’s son?” Valerie clarifies, tweeting at the revelation. “Handsome boy, him. God, Declan’s genes are strong, aren’t they?”

The mention of Declan has you searching for him through the windows, and you catch him just in time to see him storm away from Tony, disappearing from view until he barges back into the party with a snarl contorting his mouth. Most of the guests are too drunk to notice him stalking through the ballroom, or swipe a glass of whiskey off the tray of a waiter in one brisk snatch he doesn’t even slow down for.

“Oh, God,” Lizzie mutters, turning away from Declan as he shoves past your trio, the sleek material of his jacket scraping across your upper arm.

You call after him to no avail before Lizzie touches your wrist lightly, shaking her head. “Leave him, darling.”

“Why?” you ask, searching her face for some shred of a clue. “Lizzie, what’s happened?”

“You didn’t hear it from me —”

“Oh, don’t start with that,” Valerie squawks, her cockney twang exacerbated by alcohol. “The whole bloody country’s already read about it in the paper this morning.”

“For God’s sake, read what?”

“Declan’s wife — Maud — well, she’s got some big flashy part in some famous play in the city,” Valerie is all too excited to tell you, while Lizzie takes far too much interest in the ice melting at the bottom of her empty glass. “Three month run if it all goes to plan, the article said.”

“At least,” Lizzie finally pipes up, crimson colouring her face immediately after. “Poor Declan.”

Yes, poor Declan.

Taggie and Patrick, who are dancing to a completely different song to the one that’s playing, are none the wiser that their father’s just come barrelling through here like a bull in a china shop. And, given that Taggie’s yet to mention anything about her estranged mother, your bet is that they have no idea about her new role, either. Your heart breaks for your best friend, for all of them, which is why you trail after Declan once Lizzie and Valerie have found another unsuspecting guest to pry information from.

The first few doors you try are no-gos: an office space that looks rather untouched, a sitting room decked out with floral upholstery complete with a couple you’ve never met going at it on a sofa, and an ornate guest bathroom. It’s not until the fifth door that you find Declan looking forlorn in the Baddingham’s library. He’s sprawled out in a dark armchair, tall frame filling it out. Legs spread like he’s waiting for someone to kneel between them.

“Hey,” you say quietly, closing the door softly behind you.

His voice is groggy with liquor when he responds, “Where’s Patrick?”

“Dancing with Taggie, I think. It’s nice seeing them together, I know she’s missed him,” you tell him, adding, “You’ve raised some good kids.”

Declan scoffs. “Dunno how. Workaholic father, absentee mother with a chronic wandering eye.”

Your stomach dips. “I heard about Maud. Are you okay?”

“So, everyone’s talking about it.” He sinks impossibly lower into the chair, its leather whining as he splays his arms out to his sides. The whiskey in his hand splashes over the edge of his glass with the movement. “Am I okay? What’s it look like to you?”

He looks like shit, inky hair disheveled from raking a frantic hand through it, but the frustration already emanating from him stops you from voicing it. The man just found out his wife has no intention of returning home anytime soon. The least you can do is give him some grace.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Declan snaps. “And I shouldn’t be discussing this with you. It’s…” he ponders on the right word before settling on, “Inappropriate.”

You drag your bottom lip between your teeth. “Because I’m Taggie’s friend?”

He laughs incredulously. “Yeah, because you’re Taggie’s friend. You’re my employee. You’re…” He gestures haphazardly in your direction.

“I’m…?” you prompt, taking a few trepid steps towards him.

Insatiable. Infallible. Interminable. Indomitable. How could he ever settle on just one?

“Insufferable,” Declan eventually mutters, chasing the confession with a slow swig of his drink.

It’s your turn to laugh now. “I’m insufferable? I’m not the one that’s stalked off to sulk and—” You stop, shake your head. “Actually, I’m not going to argue this with you. If you want to sit in here alone instead of spending time with people who actually care about you, people who are actually here, so be it.” After shooting Declan a pointed look, you stalk to the door, but there’s a buzz in your veins that knows you’re not ready to let up just yet, so you turn on your heel to face him again. “And I don’t need you telling me what is and isn’t appropriate. Your moral compass is far too gone for that.” “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Declan wants to know, sitting a little more upright in his seat.

“You’re kidding, right? I heard you, you know. The other night. Saying my name while you were touching yourself.” Declan’s whiskey glass freezes at his lips, black eyes locked on you. “Not very appropriate considering I’m Taggie’s friend. Your employee,” you confess, throwing his reasons for not opening up to you back in his face. Your chest heaves with shallow breaths, like spilling the secret of you watching Declan come undone has stolen every bit of viable air from your burning lungs. You half expect him to deny it, but his face is blank, and his silence is aggravating. Time, what feels like minutes, stretches between the two of you, gazes set on one another while you silently duel across the library.

“Nothing to say, Declan?” you press. “That’s a first.”

Leather ripples through the room as he stands, abandoning his glass on a side table before stalking towards you. He doesn’t stop until you’re toe to toe and your back presses into the cool wood of the door. Whiskey, aftershave and a lick of sweat consumes you as Declan regards you down his nose. “Like I said,” he croaks. “You’re insufferable.”

Your jaw unhinges as you go to bite back at him, to tell him that he’s the one making things unbearable, but then he tuts, jabbing his forefinger into his chest. “You’ve said enough. It’s my turn to speak.

“Hiring you is up there with the worst things I’ve ever done, and believe me, love, I’ve done a lot of shitty things. That night in the hot tub? Ruined me for all I’m worth. I can’t go to sleep without seeing you. Can’t go to work without wondering what it’d be like to bend you over the desk. Can’t bear to watch you bat those fucking eyes of yours at Rupert or Bas or Patrick. Then there’s Maud…” His eyes slip shut as he speaks, a small shake of his head revealing shame eroded in the space between his unruly eyebrows. “Every moment she pulls away from me is a moment that pushes me closer to you, and I hate it,” he confesses. “And seeing you with Patrick is fucking eating me alive, because what kind of man — what kind of married man — wishes the worst on his son over a woman that he has no claim over?”

“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“Jealous,” Declan repeats. He can only laugh. “Did you fuck him?”

You pull back, head softly ricocheting off the wood behind you. “Did I— you can’t be serious, Declan.” “Answer the question. Did. You. Fuck. Him?”

“Of course not!”

“No?” He sounds surprised, and you’re almost offended.

“No!” you spit. The thump of muffled music vibrates through the door, matching your heart trying to break free from your chest.

“Why not?”

“Declan, stop—”

“No, tell me,” he probes, hot breath fanning over your face. “Is it because he’s not smart enough for ya? Not manly enough?” You divert your gaze, blurred vision locking onto some benign object in the distance, because you don’t trust yourself to keep looking at Declan. You can’t tell what his angle is, whether he’s jealous at the attention you’re getting from other men, or annoyed that you’re not interested in his son. Eventually, he cocks his head to meet your sightline, finger coming to your chin to turn you to face him. “Tell me why you didn’t fuck him.”

“Because he’s not you!” It flies out of your mouth before you have the sense to stop it, breath catching in the back of your throat as you await Declan’s next move. The energy caught in the mere inches between you continues to crackle, but the fire burning under him seems to have subsided as his shoulders fall from their tense fixture, his suit jacket sagging with his muscles. He looks down at you with heavy eyelids. He’s tired. So fucking tired. Of pretending he doesn’t miss Maud, that he doesn’t want you. That of both those unspoken truths piled together makes him feel like a right failure as a husband, as a father, as a boss. He was already broken, and your admission was the final crack that made him shatter.

Shaky hands come to cover your mouth, a barrier to keep any more secrets from polluting the fragile silence that hangs heavy between you. Declan shuffles back, just a hairbreadth. He’s got his head viced, one hand through his hair and the other gripping his jaw. “Fucking hell.”

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Even if it’s the truth?” He’s just barely looking at you, sheepish. Like he’s waiting for permission. Or a denial. The torture draining the colour from his face is making it hard to tell what’s going on in that gorgeous head of his.

“It’s not fair. On either of us.”

“You’re damn right it isn’t fair. None of this is fair.” He’s back at you, crowding you against the door, one large dress shoe pitched between your platform heels. You’re certain that if he took one deep breath, his belt buckle would make impressions on your stomach. You can see the indentations in his lips, the miniscule patch of dry skin at the corner. “Do you have any idea what you do to me? I’ve exercised more restraint in the last month than I’ve ever had to in my life. You’re fucking ruining me.”

The disclosure has thinned his voice to barely a whisper. Heat bubbles low in your stomach, the pull of wanting to close the gap between you warring with the consequence you know wait for you both if you give in. Still, the way he’s staring at you, with wounded eyes like twin black holes, how could you ever stand a chance?

It’s why you let another confession slip, for better or for worse.

“You think I don’t feel it, too?”

Declan reaches to tuck your hair behind your ear, his hand trailing back to caress your cheek. The minute he touches you, your whole body goes lax, completely pliable for him. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and you can practically taste the liquor on his tongue. Black eyes zigzag across your features while his palm moves to cup your jaw, the pad of his thumb meeting the swell of your bottom lip.

“This okay?” You only nod because you don’t have the strength, the gall, to betray Taggie by vocalising how desperately you want her father to keep touching you in ways you’ve only dreamed about.

“Need to hear you say it,” he urges. “Gotta make sure you really want this.”

He has no fucking idea how much you do.

“Please,” is all you manage to muster before an animalistic growl scrapes up the back of his throat and Declan O’Hara is kissing you in a way that’s going to screw you up forever.

You’re folding like the world’s flimsiest house of cards the moment his mouth hits yours, all teeth and tongues, whiskey, tobacco and him. If it weren’t for him scooping an arm around your waist to hold you to him, you’d be in a heap on the floor. Declan’s faint grunts resonate around your tongue as his own explores your mouth with fervent jabs, only breaking the erratic rhythm to suck your lip so sensually it peels a whimper from you. His arm is scorching against the bare skin that sits above the low-cut back of your dress. His hips flex into yours, and you feel the cool metal of his belt through satin. Then you feel it. His hard length, constricted by his suit trousers, pressing to your stomach. Excitement and desire pulse through you, the feeling of his arousal against you intoxicating, knowing you’re the cause.

“Ya feel that, darlin’? Feel what you do to me?” Declan asks, each word heavy with need and muffled into your neck, tongue flickering over the salty skin there. Your hands twist into his curls while he sucks a kiss into your collarbone. It pulls blood to the surface, most likely noticeable, but you don’t care. Not when Declan branding you feels so fucking good. After a few good moments, he pulls back to take you in, his lips puffy from working over your decolletage. His eyes skim over your face, drinking in every detail — the pale lipstick smeared around your mouth, your glassy eyes, the pink flush staining your cheeks.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucked out for me already.” Any shame that previously coloured Declan’s features has evaporated, the pity drowning his eyes flushed out by incessant need. He kisses you again, though it’s not so much a kiss as it’s a collision, only slowing down his movements once he’s confident this isn’t one of his fleeting, filthy dreams. It’s been so long since another person has kissed you like this, touched you like this. It’s everything Patrick’s kiss wasn’t, intimate and intentional despite the roaring laughter and music on the other side of the wall.

Declan’s large hand leaves your hip and you immediately miss it as his fingers brush over the cool doorknob. They don’t linger, there’s no hesitation before the click of the lock vibrates through you. You don’t hear it, though. Not over your pulse thrumming in your ears. It’s a purposeful, unspoken decision to shut out everything but the heat building between you, then his hand is back at your waist, pinning you in place against the wood. The other grazes down your body until he reaches the hem of your dress, sliding it up your leg until he has it gathered in a pool of azure at your hip. Your breathing hitches at the feeling of his skin on your hip bone. Under the flood of material, Declan’s fingers find the waistband of your underwear, thumb trilling over the flimsy lace holding your thong together. Your breaths mingle, lips barely grazing while his mind runs ragged with thoughts of what colour the garment is. Black to match that sinful bra you wore to your interview? Red like the pair you were wearing in his dream last night? He hooks a finger under the elastic, pulling the panties away from your body then letting them go so they snap against your skin. You let out a sharp gasp at the sting but he’s already soothing it, one step ahead of what you’re needing.

“I’ve wanted to touch you like this for so fucking long,” he groans. His hand finds its way under the lace material again to glide over the bulb of your arse, kneading the flesh there.

“Declan,” you whine, jutting your hips into his, desperate for friction.

“What’s that, darlin’?” Even with your eyes clamped shut you know he’s smirking, relishing in your neediness. You arch forward again but he’s far stronger than you, his brawniness keeping you in place. “If you want something, all you gotta do is ask.”

“Please,” you sigh, following up with a strangled, “Touch me.”

Declan wastes no time in finding you bundle of nerves, but as soon as he’s there, it’s like time slows to an excruciating speed, his fingers featherlight over the thin material. You’re already soaked. Have been since he started berating you about how much him wanting you was fucking him up. Declan knows it too, groaning as he applies more pressure, your slick seeping around the pad of his finger.

“Christ, you’re wet,” he grunts. “Is all this f’me?” Your head cants incessantly, mind and heart and pussy chanting more, more, more. But it doesn’t come. He just holds his finger to you, steady, waiting, like a finger on the trigger of a gun. The only relief you’re getting is from you squirming under his touch, and even then, it’s just not hitting in the way you know Declan could if he would just. Move.

A chuckle rumbles in his chest and as sexy as it sounds on a regular day, under the circumstances, it almost has you seeing red. “Oh, there she is,” Declan says when you finally look at him. “Needy little thing, aren’t ya?” His eyes are glued to yours, half-lidded with a grin tugging under his moustache. It’s not a challenge. It’s a promise. He has you right where he wants you, and you can feel it in the air, thick with his quiet confidence. Your mouth goes slack when Declan removes his finger from the outside of your underwear, instead using it to push the material aside, granting himself full access to your swollen centre. Then it’s back to square one: unhurried, languid movements as he traces your folds. Up and around, not once sliding over your clit despite your unintelligible splutterings begging him to do so. Declan’s lips fall back over yours with a quiet, charged kiss as his hand comes to cup your mound completely, his tongue seeking purchase against your own. You stay like that for a moment, tongues battling each other, his hand covering your pussy like he already owns it. Every single one of your nerve endings is alight, every inch of your skin acutely aware of his presence as his moustache grazes your top lip, as his middle finger ever so slightly dips between your folds. Then finally, finally, he slides a thick finger into you and you clench around him, the unfiltered pleasure enough to never want to be without the feeling of him inside you again. You both moan, the sound disappearing into your kiss, your hand disappearing into his hair, holding him to you.

The hard peaks of your nipples create little blue buds against your dress, and they rub against Declan’s chest while he drags his finger from your body, in and out, in and out, each movement as deliciously slow as the last.

After a minute, he breaks your kiss, letting his forehead rest against your own. “You’re so tight,” he grits, adding another finger despite his observation. The new addition allows the palm of his hand to jut against your clit, and the friction almost has you levitating. “Oh, you like that, huh?” Declan teases, pushing into you harder, faster. The change in pace has you jerking like a live wire. Totally unhinged, the world feels like it’s spinning off its axis, more dangerously the longer he keeps that unforgiving pace. All this pent up frustration and teasing and longing bucks you closer to the edge, pins and needles edging their way from your toes up your body until—

Knock knock knock.

The door thumps into your back, scaring your orgasm away with it. Declan’s fingers freeze inside you, your clit pulsating against his palm, your eyes locked on one another as you will away the intrusion. The doorknob jostles next and all you can think is thank God Declan locked it when he did.

“‘S occupied!” he growls.

“Dad? Is that you?” Patrick.

The whites of your eyes blow out as you glare at Declan, panicked by the arrival of his son — your date, not twenty-four hours earlier — as you conjugate just mere inches away. Declan lifts his free hand to his lips, pressing a single finger into the supple flesh. Shh.

“Dad? Are you in here?” Patrick asks again, trying the door for a second time.

“Yeah, son. You alright?” Declan responds, and your eyes go impossibly wider at him answering while his fingers are still buried in your pussy. While his steely length presses into the crease between your thigh and crotch.

“Are you alright? You’ve been gone a while.”

Declan’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, leaving a devilish smile in its wake. “Everything’s grand,” he drawls, fingers slipping out of you to stake claim on your clit. The subtle movement yanks a gasp from you, a mix of embarrassment and arousal pumping through you as Declan begins to trace circles there. You’re caught between wanting to disappear and wanting more as Declan keeps talking, Irish accent laden with lust. “Just needed a few minutes to myself. Needed to…” he pauses, licking a stripe up the side of your neck before latching his teeth onto your earlobe for a hair of a second, “Decompress.”

“Mmm,” you moan, too loudly, because Declan claps a hand over your mouth to keep any more desperate sounds slipping from under the door. There’s a moment pause, and you panic, thinking you’ve given the pair of you away, but then Patrick is chattering away again, asking after you.

“Have you seen her? Could’ve sworn she came down this way.”

“Nope,” Declan lies, picking up pace as he strums your clit, like he’s getting off on holding a conversation while trying to take you to the brink of no return. “Haven’t seen her.”

The knot in your stomach mounts again, your whole body buzzing at high frequency. Patrick says something else, a goodbye, you think, but for all you know he could be speaking gibberish, the rush of blood to your ears blocking out anything that’s not Declan.

The slight savour of sweat he’s worked up and how it tangoes with the cigarette smoke still lingering on his suit jacket.

How his mouth hangs slightly open, his tongue resting loosely against his bottom row of teeth, completely dumb for you.

The grunt wrapped in a sigh that pushes out of him when he plows two thickset fingers inside you again, and the matching moan you hum into the palm of his hand, the metal of his wedding ring cool against your upper lip.

“You’re making me crazy,” he says lowly. “Turnin’ me into someone who steals his son’s girl.” Your response comes out distorted, muffled against his skin. Declan’s hand slips from your mouth, finding its way to the nape of your neck and tangling its fingers into the frizzy hair there, the slight tension making your scalp tingle. “You got something to say, darlin’?”

“Not… his… girl,” you pant, words punctuated by Declan pumping his fingers impossibly deeper into your cunt.

“You’re damn right you’re not his girl.”

The subtext is clear. You’re not Patrick’s. You’re his. The feminist in you should balk at the insinuation but who are you kidding? Every stolen glance. Every car ride. Every solo orgasm you’ve yanked from yourself in the dead of night to the thought of him. Everything has led you to this.

Your mascara flakes over the apples of your cheeks as you squeeze your eyes shut, Declan’s fingers expertly twisting and careening until the coil in the pit of your stomach is wound so tight you think you’re going to crack in two.

“Fuck, Declan,” you mewl, gripping his biceps to keep yourself steady. “So close.”

“Look at me, love. Wanna see those pretty eyes when you come.”

You could’ve fallen apart at those words alone, but you do what Declan says, gaze fluttering to his face as the butt of his hand against your clit works in tandem with his fingers until there’s a sharp and sudden snap, breaking you apart in a violent burst.

“Fuck, fuck, fu—” your expletives are swaddled by his hand yet again, eyes pricking with tears as you chase your high. Even through the blur, you see Declan grinning down at you with pride, nodding, quietly egging you on.

“That’s it, darlin’. Good. Good girl,” he whispers, thumb at the back of your head stroking tiny circles while his opposite fingers slow down with your breathing. It’s only when you stop convulsing completely that he drops his hand from your face. Your feet scream in pain as you come back to yourself, the weight of digging your heels in to keep you upright making itself known. Meanwhile, Declan slips himself from you, gently rearranging your underwear over your folds and allowing the skirt of your dress to float back down your legs. He shuffles backwards, allowing you space to gather yourself, to ground yourself, breaths still shaky as you step away from the door you’d come to be far too intimate with. You don’t speak, not yet, just watch as Declan peers down at his right hand that’s glistening with your slick, then to his left hand, where his wedding band glints under the library’s chandelier.

“Are you—” okay, is what you intend to ask, but Declan cuts you off, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets.

“I should go find Taggie and Patrick. Can’t have them hearing about their mum through some idle party gossip,” he says, voice steady but marred with a tinge of uncertainty, as if he’s trying to make sense of everything. He maneuvers around you awkwardly, all that cockiness from moments ago melted away. He pauses at the door, the heavy silence between you so palpable. His hand rests on the doorknob, but he doesn’t turn it. “This was…” he trails off, eyes searching the room for the right word.

"Yeah," is all you can manage, because you can’t find the words either. For how he just made you feel like every single one of your synapses was on fire. For the way he's treating you now, all cool and distant, like he's casually asking you to grab him a coffee. Declan forces a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and nods. Just once, stiff. With one final glance, he slips out of sight, laughter and clinking glasses and whumping music replacing Declan in the room before the door clicks closed behind him. And almost immediately, you feel irrelevant and unsure of what to do next. At least, you think it best to let a few minutes pass before you leave the library, so you shuffle over to the large mirror hanging above the fireplace to take in your dishevelled form. You look utterly wrecked, all puffy lips and smudged mascara. All at the hands of Declan O’Hara.

Oh, God, you think, doing your best to wipe away the fallout of the last twenty minutes from your face. What have we done?

When you’re satisfied that you don’t look like…well, like your boss just plied an orgasm from you, you trace Declan’s footsteps and step back into the party, hoping to go unnoticed by the sparse guests mingling around you. Just when you think you’ve escaped unscathed, you catch Rupert’s eye at the end of the hallway — sharp, knowing. He tilts his glass of champagne towards you, slight smirk with the quiet gesture. It’s not a greeting, but an acknowledgement, and you wonder if he saw Declan leave the library, too.

If you got this far, thank you for reading!!!! Let me know in the comments what you think, and what you predict might happen next?!

Previous chapters: Chapter 1: The Interview, Chapter 2: Beneath The Surface, Chapter 3: Driving Miss Crazy

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